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vs. 



MEMOIRS 



OF 



SILVIO PELLICO; 



OR 



MY PRISONS. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN 

BY M. J, SMEAD AND H, P, LEFEBVBE, 



NEW YORK: 
HENRY G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM STREET. 

BURGESS & STRINGER, NEW YORK ; JORDAN & CO., REDDING & CO., SAXTON, PIERCE 

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J. B. STEEL, NEW ORLEANS. 

1844. 



- 



PRICE TWJENTY-F1VJE CEJXTS, 



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author."— N. Y. Courier and Enquirer. 



.1 




MEMOIRS 

OF 




- — * - 




SILVIO PELLICO; 








OR 






M 


Y 


PEISO 


N 


s. 


V 


. : 


TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN 








BY M. 


J, 8WEAD AND H, P, LEFEBVRE 












i 






■ 










NEW YORK: 






J. & 


H. G. 


LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM 


STREET. 






1844. 







BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



OF 



SILVIO PELLICO. 



Silvio Pellico, a distinguished Italian 
poet, was born in the year 1789, at Saluces, 
in Piedmont, where his father, "Honorato 
Pellico, also a poet, held a situation in 
the post-office. Notwithstanding a sickly- 
infancy, the love of poetry early took pos- 
session of his soul. He was a poet, so 
to speak, from his cradle : at ten he had 
composed a tragedy. He had an emulous 
companion in his classical studies, in his 
elder brother, Luigi, who has since be- 
come a distinguished comic poet. Both 
having, at an early age, evinced a genius 
for dramatic composition, their father en- 
couraged its development by arranging 
the scenes which they composed, and 
aiding them in the construction of a little 
stage, where they recited their effusions. 
Silvio removed with his father to Turin, 
where he pursued his studies with pro- 
mising success, and where his taste for 
letters became more decidedly manifest. 
Here he is said to have formed an attach- 
ment with a young lady ; but Providence 
saw fit to remove, by an early death, the 
object of his affection. This was his 
first love, and his first sorrow ; the remem- 
brance of which, his after sufferings were 
never able to obliterate. 

At the age of sixteen, he accompanied 
his mother to Lyons, where he resided 
four years with a wealthy cousin of hers, 
dividing his time between a refined and 
elegant society and the study of those 



beautiful productions of genius with which 
the French literature abounds. But, sud- 
denly seized with what is called le mat du 
pays, occasioned by reading a new poem 
by Foscolo, The Tombs, he felt an irre- 
sistible attraction towards the land of his 
birth, and a few days after was on his 
road to Italy. 

Settling at Milan, he established there 
his reputation as a poet. By his merit 
and amiable manners, he gained access 
to the house of Count Briche, who en- 
trusted to him the education of one of his 
sons. He afterwards became tutor to the 
two sons of Count Porro Lambertenghi, 
with whom he lived on a footing of great 
intimacy. The house of the latter was, 
at that time, the rendezvous of all the 
distinguished characters of Milan, as well 
as of many strangers of distinction. 
There Silvio met Byron, Madame de 
Stael, Davis, Schlegel, Brougham, and 
many other renowned personages, who 
passed through this city from all parts of 
Europe. 

In 1819, he published the tragedy of 
Francesca da Rimini, the brilliant success 
of which placed him at once in the 
highest rank of the dramatic poets of that 
day. His translation of Manfred appeared 
the same year. His second tragedy, 
Eufemio di Messina, was forbidden by the 
government to be represented ; but, though 
deprived of the illusions of the stage, it 



IV 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF SILVIO PELLICO. 



was found worthy of the renown of its 
author. 

Under the auspices of Count Porro, he 
established a journal, entitled The Con- 
ciliator, having for its object, the regene- 
ration of Italy, by introducing a new sys- 
tem of national education, giving a better 
turn to literary effort, extending the range 
of criticism, and imparting an impulse to 
young Avriters, by opening to them new 
fields in science, art, and literature. This 
journal was conducted by an association 
of men of the highest literary eminence 
in Italy : Romagnosi, Melchiore Gioja, 
Manzoni, Grossi, and Berchet, of whom 
Silvio was appointed secretary. The 
political opinions it professed soon drew 
down upon it the censures of government, 
which, in less than a year, put an end to 
its existence. 

When Silvio, accused of being con- 
nected with a secret association, and of 
taking part in a plot against the govern- 
ment, was arrested and confined in the pri- 
son of St. Marguerite, his bosom friend, 
Piero Maroncelli, who figures in so touch- 
ing a manner in the following memoirs, 
had been imprisoned there six days before. 
Providence seemed to preserve to him this 
friend for the purpose of aiding him to 
support his misfortunes. 

During his confinement under the leads 
at Venice, he composed the two tragedies, 
Ester oVEngaddi,_ and Igenia ftAsti. Be- 
fore setting out for Spielberg, he begged 
the Commission to send these two pieces 
to his parents as a memento of his poetical 
genius. The answer he received was, 
that his parents might perhaps determine 
to publish them, and that it was not fitting 
that the applauses of Italy should be 
awakened by the productions of a man 
who had been smitten by the justice of 
the Emperor. 



Generally, those who write their me- 
moirs, entertaining the design either of 
clearing themselves from some imputation, 
or of imparting some interest to events in 
which they have taken part, study to pre- 
sent them, at others' expense, in a light 
most favorable to themselves. In the book 
of Silvio, on the contrary, we find no recrim- 
ination, no attack upon his enemies; it is the 
touching recital of the miseries of the most 
rigorous imprisonment, written with all the 
eloquence of grief, but with all the calm 
of intrepid Christian resignation. His 
very moderation speaks with more effect 
against the despotic cruelties of the Aus- 
trian government, than whole volumes of 
the bitterest invective and complaint. 
With what affecting simplicity he paints 
his impressions, his feelings, and his 
struggles to triumph over himself and all 
resentment ! The exquisite sufferings of 
the poet cannot but excite in his readers a 
lively sympathy, and those even who do 
not partake the religious convictions which 
sustained him, will not venture to deny the 
benefits of Christianity, after having read 
his memoirs. He regained his freedom 
in the August of 1830, and reached Turin 
on the 17th of September following, 
where he still lives in the enjoyment of 
the devoted affection of his family, and 
the esteem of his countrymen. 

Those who have seen this remarkable 
man, say, that his countenance, while it 
bears the traces of suffering, has a sub- 
dued and melancholy sweetness of expres- 
sion, that it is impossible to imagine more 
gentleness and modesty, and that his lan- 
guage, which is the image of his soul, 
breathes that noble simplicity, that univer- 
sal benevolence, that ardent love of 
humanity, which so generally pervade his 
writings. 

The Translators. 



MEMOIRS OF SILYIO PELLICO; 



OR 



MY. PRISONS 



THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 



Have I written these memoirs from the 
vain motive of speaking of myself? I 
sincerely desire that it may not be so; 
and as far as one can be the judge of him- 
self, I believe that I had in view objects 
much more elevated : I washed to admin- 
ister some solace to the unfortunate, by 
the recital of evils that I have suffered, 
and the consolations to be found (I speak 
from my own experience) even in the 
greatest misfortunes. 

I wished to bear witness, that in the 
midst of my long sufferings, I have in no 
respect found human nature so unjust, so 
little worthy of indulgence, so deficient 



in noble souls as it is generally repre- 
sented. 

I wished to urge generous hearts to 
guard against feelings of animosity, but 
rather to love all men, and to entertain an 
irreconcileable hatred for nothing but 
falsehood, pusillanimity, treachery and all 
moral degradation. ' 

I wished, in fine, to repeat a truth 
already well known but too often forgotten ; 
namely, that both religion and philosophy 
demand energy of will and calmness of 
judgment, and that without these two con- 
ditions united, there can be neither justice, 
nor dignity, nor any fixed principles, 



MY PRISONS 



CHAPTER I. 

On Friday, the thirteenth of October, 1820, 
I was arrested at Milan, and conducted to St. 
Marguerite; it was then three o'clock in the 
afternoon. I was subjected to a long exami- 
nation, during that and many following days. 
But of that I will not speak ; like a lover ill- 
treated by his mistress, and determined to 
preserve towards her a disdainful silence, I 
let politics alone and speak of something else. 

At nine o'clock in the evening of that un- 
happy Friday, the registrar consigned me to 
the hands of a jailer, who having conducted 
me to the apartment assigned to me, politely 
desired me to deposit with him, to be re- 
stored at a proper time, my watch, my purse, 
and all that I had about me, and respectfully 
bade me good night. 

"Stop a moment, my good friend," said I, 
"I have had no dinner to-day; bring me 
something." 

" Directly — the restaurateur is close by, and 
you shall see what good wine" — 

" Wine ! I do not drink any." 

At this reply, Signor Angiolino regarded 
me with an expression of alarm, and like a 
man persuaded that I was jesting. Jailers 
that keep a refreshment shop, have a horror 
of a prisoner who does not drink wine. 

"I drink none, I assure you." 

" I am sorry for you, sir ; solitude will 
prove doubly burthensome." 

Seeing that I did not change my resolution, 
he departed, and in less than half an hour 
brought in my dinner. After I had eaten a 
few mouthfuls, and swallowed a glass of 
water, he left me alone. 

My room was on a level with the ground, 
and looked out upon a court. There were 



prisons on the right, prisons on the left, pri- 
sons in front, and prisons above me. I lean- 
ed against the window and stood some time, 
listening to the tread of the jailers who went 
and came, and to the frantic songs of some 
wretched prisoners. 

I reflected : " This prison, one century ago, 
was a convent; did the holy and penitent 
females who inhabited it, ever suspect that a 
day would come when their cloisters would 
no more resound with the groans and pious 
songs of women, but with blasphemies and 
ribald songs; and would contain men of all 
sorts, destined, for the most part, to the work- 
house or the scaffold ? An age hence, and 
who will breathe in these cells? Oh! the 
rapid flight of time ! Oh ! the perpetual mo- 
bility of things ! Can he who considers these, 
complain, if fortune has ceased to smile upon 
him — if he is buried in a prison, or menaced 
with a gibbet ? Yesterday I was one of the 
happiest beings in the world ! To-day I enjoy 
no more of the sweets which constituted the 
charm of my life ; neither liberty, nor friends, 
nor hope ! No, to deceive myself would be 
folly. I shall leave this place only ro be 
thrown into some horrible den, or to be de- 
livered to the executioner! Well, the day 
after my death, it will be the same as if I had 
breathed my last in a palace, and had been 
carried to the tomb with the greatest hon- 
ours." 

Reflecting thus upon the inexorable flight 
of time, my spirit gathered strength. But 
then my father, my mother, my two sisters, 
my two brothers, and another family thai I 
loved as if it were my own, preseuted them- 
selves to my imagination, and the arguments 
of philosophy lost all their force upon me. I 
was overcome, and wept like a child. 



MY PRISONS. 



CHAPTER II. 

Three months before my arrest, I had 
been to Turin ; I had seen, after several years 
of absence, my dear parents, one of my bro- 
thers and my two sisters. Our whole family 
was always so much attached to each other ! 
No child was ever more caressed by his father 
and mother than myself. Oh ! how deeply 
was my heart moved at the sight of those re- 
vered parents, in finding them more broken 
by age than I had anticipated ! How I wish- 
ed then to leave them no more, but to devote 
all my attentions to solace their old age ! 
How much it cost me during the short stay 
that I made at Turin, to fulfil certain duties, 
which kept me away from the paternal roof, 
and left me so few hours for the society of my 
dear family ! My poor mother said with a 
sort of melancholy bitterness — "Ah! our 
Silvio has not come to Turin to see us." The 
morning of my departure, our separation was 
most painful. My father entered the carriage 
with me, and accompanied me for a mile, and 
then returned alone. I turned to see him 
once more,- and wept; and kissed a ring 
which my mother had given me. Never be- 
fore had I felt my heart so torn in taking 
leave of my family. Not believing in pre- 
sentiments, I was surprised that I could not 
vanquish my sorrow, and was forced to cry 
out with alarm : " Whence comes this extra- 
ordinary anxiety ?" I seemed to see in the 
future some overwhelming misfortune. 

Now, in my prison, I recalled this alarm 
and anguish ; I remembered with painful dis- 
tinctness, all that my parents, three months 
before, had said to me, and the touching com- 
plaint of my mother, "Ah! our Silvio has 
not come to Turin to see us!" fell heavily 
upon my heart. I reproached myself for not 
having shown a thousand times more tender- 
ness for them. I loved them so much, and 
had expressed it to them so coldly ! I was to 
see them no more, and had feasted myself so 
little with the happiness of beholding their 
dear features ! I had been so sparing in the 
manifestations of my love ! These thoughts 
rent my soul. 

I closed the window and walked for an 



hour, expecting no rest during the night. I 
cast myself upon the bed and slept from 
fatigue. 



CHAPTER III. 

The waking which follows the first night 
in prison, is horrible ! "Is it possible," said 
I, recollecting where I was — "can it be that 
I am here ? and is it not a dream ? It is but 
too true that yesterday I was arrested ; yes- 
terday I was subjected to a long examination, 
which will continue to-day, to-morrow — until 
when ? God only knows. It was last night 
before going to sleep, that I wept so much at 
the remembrance of my family." 

The rest, the perfect silence, the short sleep 
that had recruited my internal strength, seem- 
ed to have increased in me a hundred fold the 
power of my grief. In this total absence of 
everything that could engage my mind, the 
affliction which my friends would experience, 
and particularly my father and mother, at the 
news of my arrest, impressed itself on my 
mind with incredible force. . 

"At this very moment," thought I, "they 
are sleeping in tranquillity; or if they are 
awake, they are perhaps thinking of me with 
tenderness, far, alas ! from suspecting where 
I am. Too happy, if God should remove 
them from this world before the news of my 
calamity reaches them ! Who will give 
them the strength to support such a blow ?" 

A voice from within seemed to reply : " He 
whom all the afflicted love, invoke, and feel 
in themselves! who once gave a mother 
strength to follow her son to Golgotha, and 
remain at the foot of his cross! the Friend of 
unfortunate and suffering humanity !" 

That was the first moment that religion 
triumphed in my heart, and it is to filial love 
that I am indebted for this inestimable gift. 

Heretofore, without being opposed to reli- 
gion, I cultivated it little and badly. The 
objections commonly used to combat it, ap- 
peared to me to have little weight ; and yet 



MY PRISONS. 



a thousand sophistical doubts weakened my 
faith. For a lon<; time I had entertained no 
doubt concerning the existence of a Gnd, and 
was continually repeating to myself that if 
God exisi, a necessary consequence of his 
justice, is another life for the man who suffers 
in tii is unjust world; whence arises the im- 
portant obligation of aspiring to the happiness 
of that life to come ; whence springs a religion 
founded upon the love of God and our neigh- 
bor, and that eternal striving of the soul to 
rise to excellence by generous and noble sacri- 
fices. I had long said all this to myself, and 
added : " What, then, is Christianity, but this 
consiant reaching after the exaltation of the 
soul ?" And I asked myself with astonish- 
ment, how it was that Christianity exhibiting 
itself so pure in its principles, so well adapted 
to our nature, so impregnable, an age could 
arrive when philosophy dared to fay :"I 
will henceforth assume the office of Chris- 
tianity." And how wilt thou discharge it? 
In leaching vice? " No, indeed." In incul- 
cating virtue ? Very well ; that will be the 
love of God and man, precisely what Chris- 
tianity teaches. 

Reasoning in this manner for several years, 
I avoided coming to the conclusion: be con- 
sistent ihen; become a Christian; be not de- 
terred by seme abuses; do not refine too 
much upon some difficult points of church 
doctrine, since the main point is sufficiently 
clear: love God and thy neighbor. 

In my prison I at length decided to draw 
this conclusion, and I did so. I hesitated a 
moment at the thought, that if any one came 
to know me more religious than I had been 
heretofore, he might arrogate to himself the 
right to treat me as a false devotee, or as a 
man degraded by misfortune. But possessing 
a consciousness that I was neiiher the one 
nor the other, I disregarded reproaches that I 
did not deserve, and remained firm in ihe re- 
solution of being, and of henceforth declaring 
myself, a Christian. 



CHAPTER IV. 

It was some time later that I came to a 
determined stand in this resolution; but I 
began to revolve it in my mind from that first 
night of my captivity. Towards morning my 
mad transports subsided ; I was surprised at 
it. I still thought of my parents and all 
those that I loved, but with no more ap- 
prehensions about their fortitude of soul ; the 
remembrance of their virtuous principles 
which I had seen exhibited under other 
trials, returned to console me. 

Why was I, a little while ago, so much 
overcome at the thought of their grief? yet 
why do I now feel such confidence in the 
strength of their courage? Was this happy 
change a miracle ? or was it the natural effect 
of my reanimated belief in God? Well, mi- 
racle or not, it matters little what name we 
give to the real and sublime benefits of religion. 

At midnight, two secondini (a name given 
to under jailers, or turnkeys) had been to see 
me, and had found me in a very bad humor. 
At day-break they returned and found my 
countenance serene, and my reception kind. 

"Last night, sir," said Tirola, "you had 
the look of a basilisk — now you appear 
another man, and I am glad of it; it is a proof 
that you are not — pardon the expression — 
a malefactor; because villains (I am old 
in the business, and my observations have 
some weight) are more furious the second 
day of their confinement than the first. Do 
you take snuff?" 

" I am not in the habit of it, but I will not 
refuse what you offer with such kind po- 
liteness. As to your observation, pardon me, 
it is not worthy of a man of such observation 
as you appear to be. If, this morning, I had 
no longer the look of a basilisk, could not this 
change be on my part a proof of insanity, 
or the effect of self-deception, a dream of 
approaching liberty ?" 

"I could believe it if you were in prison, 
for other reasons; but I can scarcely believe 
that these affairs of state will be brought to a 
termination in so short a time, and you are 
not so simple as to imagine it. Excuse 
the liberty, will you take another pinch ?" 



10 



MY PRISONS. 



"Thank you. But how can you look 
so cheerful, when you pass your whole time 
among the unhappy?" 

"You will, perhaps, think it is from indif- 
ference to the miseries of others: to tell the 
truth, I do not know the reason myself; but 
I assure you, it has often given me pain 
to see others weep. And then I pretend 
to be merry, so that they may smile also, the 
poor prisoners !" 

An idea had just struck me, which I never 
had before. It is that a man can follow 
the occupation of a jailer, and still have 
a very good heart. 

"The business has nothing to do with it, 
sir. Beyond that arch that you can see 
on the other side of the court, there is another 
court and other prisons, entirely occupied by 
females ; they are — I scarcely know how to 
say it — women of bad life. No matter; 
some of them are angels in heart. And 
if you were a secondino" — 

" Me ?" and I burst into a laugh. 

Tirola seemed rather disconcerted by my 
laughing, and did not finish his sentence. 
He intended, perhaps, to say, that if I had 
been a secondino, it would have been difficult 
for me not to become attached to some one of 
those unfortunate creatures. 

He asked me what I wished for breakfast ; 
he went out, and a few minutes after, brought 
me some coffee. 

I looked at him steadily in the face, with an 
equivocal smile, which meant to say: " Could 
you carry a note for me to another unhappy 
man, my dear friend Piero? 1 ' And he replied 
to me by another smile which seemed to say, 
"No, sir; and if you solicit any other of my 
fellow jailers, and he answers you 'yes,' 
be assured that he will betray you." 

I am not perfectly certain that he under- 
stood me, or that I did him. But I well 
know that I was a dozen times on the point 
of asking for a bit of paper and a pencil, and 
durst not do it, because he had something in 
his eyes, I know not what, which seemed to 
warn me against trusting anybody, and least 
of all, any one but him. 



CHAPTER V. 

If Tirola, with his expression of kindness, 
had not had certain sinister looks, if he had 
had a more engaging physiognomy, I should 
have yielded to the temptation of making him 
my messenger. And, perhaps, a note "from 
me to my friend, in season, would have given 
him the means of repairing some mistake, 
and might have perhaps saved, not him, my 
poor friend ! he was already but too much 
discovered ! but many others and myself! 

Patience, things were to be so. 

I was summoned anew to the examination; 
and it lasted all that day and many others, 
without any interval but that of meals. 

As long as the trial continued, the days, to 
me, passed rapidly; thanks to the activity of 
mind which compelled me to answer, without 
end, questions the most unconnected and di- 
verse. At the hours of repast, and during the 
evening, I endeavored to compose my thoughts 
for reflection, upon all the questions which had 
been asked me, what answers I had given, 
and prepare myself upon all the points con- 
cerning which I should probably be further 
interrogated. 

At the end of the first week, an event oc- 
curred which gave me great pain. My poor 
friend, Piero, as anxious as I was myself to 
establish some communication between us, 
wrote me a letter, and employed to convey it 
to me, not one of the secoridini, but an unhap- 
py prisoner, who usually came with them to 
perform the duty of a servant in our rooms. 
He was a man of sixty or seventy years, con- 
demned to, I know not how many months of 
imprisonment. 

With a pin that I had, I pricked my finger, 
and wrote with my blood, a few lines in re- 
ply, which I sent back by the same messen- 
ger. He had the ill fortune to be detected; 
the billet was found upon him, and if I am 
not mistaken, he was flogged. I heard 
frightful cries, which appeared to come from 
the old man, and I never saw him again. 

When I was summoned to the bar, Ishud- 

dered- at seeing presented to me, the 

note I had scribbled with my blood, which, 

' thank Heaven, could injure no one, and had 



MY PRISONS. 



11 



the air of a mere expression of civility. They 
aske"d me with what I had drawn that blood ; 
they took away my pin, and laughed at our 
detection. For myself I did not laugh, I 
could not banish from my eyes the image of 
our aged messenger. I would have submit- 
ted, cheerfully, to any chastisement whatever, 
provided they had pardoned him; and when 
I heard those cries which I believed to be his, 
I was melted even to tears. 

I asked the jailer and the secondini several 
times about him, but in vain. They shook 
their heads and said: " He has paid dear for 
it. He will not do it again. He is rather 
more quiet now." And refused to explain 
further. 

Did they intend to signify by that, the nar- 
row prison where the unhappy man was con- 
fined, or to give me to understand that he had 
died under the blows of the stick, or in conse- 
quence of them ? 

I thought I saw him one day, on the other 
side of the court, under the portico, with a 
load of wood upon his shoulders, and my 
heart beat as if I had seen a brother. 



CHAPTER VI. 

When I ceased to be subjected to the mar- 
tyrdom of their examinations, I had no more 
occupation ; I felt most bitterly the weight of 
solitude. 

I was allowed, indeed, to have a Bible and 
a copy of Dante ; and the jailer kindly offered 
me the use of his library, containing some ro- 
mances of Scuderi, Piazzi, and others still 
worse ; but the agitation of my mind was 
such as to unfit me for any reading whatever. 
I committed to memory, each day, a canto of 
Dante; but this exercise was so entirely me- 
chanical that my thoughts were much less 
occupied with his beautiful lines, than with 
my own misfortunes. It was the same when 
Iread anything else, excepting some passages 
in the Bible. This divine book, which I had 
always much loved, even when I thought 



myself an unbeliever, I now studied with 
more veneration than ever. But yet, very 
often, I read it with my mind pre-occupied, 
and therefore was unable to comprehend it. 
By degrees I came to meditate upon it more 
profoundly, and to relish it more and more. 
That reading never gave me the slightest 
disposition to bigotry, that is to say, to that 
ill understood devotion which makes its pos- 
sessor a coward or a fanatic. But it taught 
me to love God and man, ever to desire the 
reign of justice, to abhor iniquity, and to par- 
don those who commit it. Christianity, instead 
of destroying in me what good philosophy had 
effected, confirmed and fortified it with nobler 
and more powerful arguments. 

Having read, one day, that we ought to 
pray without ceasing, and that true prayer 
consists not in muttering a great many words 
as heathens do, but in adoring God in simpli- 
city, as well in words as in actions ; endea- 
voring to make both the accomplishment of 
his holy will, I purposed earnestly to com- 
mence that incessant prayer, that is to say, no 
longer to allow myself a single thought which 
was not animated by the desire of conforming 
to the dispensations of Providence. • 

The forms of prayer which I used in my 
devotions, were always few in number, not 
indeed, from dislike (for I am even convinced 
that they are useful, to some more, to others 
less, in fixing the attention), but because I find 
myself so constituted that I am incapable of 
reciting long prayers, without wandering to 
some other subjects, and forgetting my pious 
occupation. 

The desire of holding myself continually in 
the presence of God, far from being a fatigu- 
ing effort of mind, or a cause of trembling, 
had for me an ineffable sweetness. Not for- 
getting that God is always with us, that he 
is in us, or rather that we are in him ; soli- 
tude lost, each day, some of its horrors for 
me: " Am I not in the best company," said I 
to myself, and I sung and whistled with 
pleasure and tenderness. 

"Well!" thought I, "a fever might have 
carried me to the grave. All my dear friends, 
who would have abandoned themselves to 
tears at my loss, would nevertheless have ac- 



12 



MY PRISONS. 



quired the strength to bear their affliction. 
Instead of a tomb, a prison has swallowed me 
up. Ought I not to believe that God will 
give them the same strength now ?" 

My heart raised to Heaven for them the 
most ardent wishes, sometimes accompanied 
with tears ; but even those tears were min- 
gled with sweetness. I had the fullest confi- 
dence that God would come to their aid and 
mine, and I was not mistaken. 



CHAPTER VII. 

To live in freedom is much more pleasant 
than to live in prison. Who can doubt it ? 
And yet, amid the miseries of a prison, when 
one thinks that God is there, that the joys of 
this world are fleeting, that true happiness 
exists in the conscience, and not in outward 
objects, life has still some charms. Ere a 
month had elapsed, I had resigned myself to 
my lot, if not perfectly, at least in a degree 
quite supportable. Not willing to purchase 
impunity by the ruin of others, I saw that my 
future lot must be, either the scaffold or a 
long imprisonment. It was necessary to sub- 
mit to it. " I will breathe," said I to myself, 
" as long as a breath shall be left me, and 
when that is taken away, I will do like all 
sick persons in their last moments — I will 
die." 

I endeavored to complain of nothing, but to 
give ray soul all possible enjoyments. The 
most common was the frequent enumeration 
of all the blessings which had embellished 
my life; the best of fathers and the best of 
mothers, excellent brothers and sisters, such 
and such people for friends, a good education, 
the love of letters, &c. Who had been fa- 
vored more than myself? Although that 
happiness is now clouded by adversity, shall 
I not thank God ? Sometimes, while making 
this enumeration, I was subdued to tenderness 
for a moment, and wept ; but my courage and 
cheerfulness soon returned. 

In the very beginning of my captivity I had 



made a friend. It was neither the jailer, nor 
one of the secondini, nor any of the persons 
who conducted my trial. Nevertheless I 
speak of a human creature. Who was it, 
then ? A deaf and dumb child, five or six 
years old. His father and mother were cul- 
prits upon whom the law had laid its grasp. 
The wretched orphan was supported at the 
public expense, together with several other 
children of the same condition. They all oc- 
cupied a single chamber in front of mine, and 
at certain hours the doors were thrown open, 
that they might go out and take the air in the 
yard. 

The deaf and dumb boy came under my 
window smiling and making signs of friend- 
ship. I threw him a fine piece of bread, he 
seized it, and leaping with joy, ran to distrib- 
ute it among all his companions ; after which 
he returned to eat his own small portion under 
my window, expressing his gratitude by the 
smile of his beautiful eyes. 

The other children eyed me from a dis- 
tance, yet did not dare to approach. The 
deaf and dumb child had a great sympathy 
for me, which was not excited by interest 
alone. Sometimes not knowing what to do 
with the bread which I threw him, he signi- 
fied to me that he and his comrades had eaten 
enough, and could swallow no more. If he 
saw a secondini going to my chamber, he 
gave him the bread, that he might return it 
to me; and although he expected nothing 
from me, yet he continued no less to play 
about under my window, with a » most at- 
tractive grace, appearing happy because I 
was looking at him. On one occasion, a sec- 
ondini permitted the child to come in my 
prison ; he had scarcely entered when he ran 
and threw his arms round my legs, at the 
same time uttering a cry of joy. I took him 
in my arms, and cannot express with what 
transport he overwhelmed me with caresses. 
What love in that dear little soul ! How I 
wished that I could give him an education, 
and rescue him from the degradation in 
which I found him. 

I never learned his name ; he himself did 
not know that he had one. He was always 
merry, and I never saw him cry but once, 



MY PRISONS. 



J3 



when he was whipped, I do not know why, 
by the jailer. Strange thins; ! to live in such 
a place appears the height of misery, and yet 
this child certainly enjoyed as much happi- 
ness as the son of a prince of the same age 
could have done. T made these observations, 
and learned that the disposition can become 
independent of the place of residence. Let us 
govern our imagination and we shall be com- 
fortable almost anywhere. A day soon passes 
by, and when at night we go to rest, without 
hunger and acute pains, what matters it 
whether that be in a place which we name a 
prison, or in another which is called a man- 
sion or a palace ? 

Excellent reasoning! but how to manage 
to govern this imagination ? I made the at- 
tempt, and sometimes thought that I had suc- 
ceeded admirably; but at other times it tri- 
umphed over me like a tyrant, and then, to 
my confusion, I remained perfectly confound- 
ed at my own weakness. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

It is a redeeming circumstance in my mis- 
fortune, that they have given me a prison on 
a level with the ground, upon this court 
where, within four steps of me, comes that 
dear child with whom it is so sweet to con- 
verse, although by signs. Wonderful human 
intelligence! How many things do we say 
to each other, by means of the various ex- 
pressions of look and countenance! With 
how much grace he directs his motions when 
I smile at him ! How he corrects them when 
he fees that they displease me! How he 
comprehends that I love him, when he ca- 
resses or regales any of his companions ! 
Nobody in the world would imagine it, yet I, 
standing at my window, can be a kind of in- 
structor of this poor little creature. By dint 
of frequently exercising these signs, the means 
of communicating our ideas to each other will 
be perfected. The more he perceives that he 
is insiructed and improved with me, the more 



he will love me ; I shall be for him the genius 
of reason and kindness. He will learn to con- 
fide to me his griefs, his joys, his desires; and 
I shall learn to console him, to ennoble his 
mind, and to direct him in all his conduct. 
Who knows whether they, by leaving my fate 
undecided from month to month, will not 
leave me to grow old in this place? Who 
knows if this child may not grow up under 
my eyes, and be hereafter appointed to some 
service in this establishment ? With as much 
mind as he appears to have, to what will he 
arrive ? Alas ! nothing more than a very 
good secondino, or something else of that sort. 
Well ! shall I not have done a good action in 
contributing to inspire him with the desire of 
pleasing good people and himself, and in giv- 
ing him the habit of benevolent feelings. 

This soliloquy was very natural. I always 
had a great liking for children, and the office 
of instructor appeared to me sublime. I had 
rilled, for several years, the office of tutor to 
Giacomo and Giulio Porro, two youths of 
great promise, whom I loved, and shall al- 
ways love as if they were my own sons. 
God knows how many times, in prison, I 
have thought of them ! How many times I 
have grieved that I could not complete their 
education, and what ardent wishes I have 
formed that they may meet with a new mas- 
ter who would equal me in love for them. 

Sometimes I exclaimed to myself: " What 
a pitiful contrast! Instead of Giacomo and 
Giulio, children endowed with the most bril- 
liant gifts of nature and fortune, fate sends 
me, for a pupil, a poor deaf and dumb boy in 
rags, and the son of a thief! who will become, 
at the most, a secondino, which, in terms less 
choice, means a sbiro (turnkey)." 

These reflections confounded and discour- 
aged me ; but as soon as I heard the piercing 
cry of my little mute, I felt all my blood 
moved, as a father who hears the voice of his 
son. And that cry and sight dissipated, in 
me, all idea of abasement in regard to him. 
Is it his fault that he is ragged, that his or- 
gans are imperfect, and that he is of a race of 
robbers ? A human soul in the age of inno- 
cence, is always worthy of respect. Thus I 
spoke, and regarded him each day with more 



14 



MY PRISONS. 



tenderness. He appeared to me to grow in in- 
telligence, and I was more and more confirm- 
ed in the pleasing idea of applying myself to 
his improvement. Fancying in my mind all 
that could happen, I thought that perhaps one 
day, being out of prison, I might find the 
means of placing that child in a deaf and 
dumb asylum, and thus open to him the way to 
a condition more desirable than that of a sbiro. 

Whilst I was occupying myself so deli- 
ciously with his happiness, two secondini 
came one day to take me. 

" We must change your room, sir." 

" What do you mean ?" 

" We have received orders to put you into 
another room." 

"Why?" 

" Some other big bird has been caught, 
ana\ this room being the best — you under- 
stand." 

" I comprehend, this is the first station of 
new-comers." 

They conducted me to the opposite side of 
the court, alas ! it was no longer on the 
ground floor, I could no more converse with 
my little mute. In crossing the court I saw 
the dear little fellow seated upon the ground, 
surprised and sad; he understood that he was 
losing me. In an. instant he rose and ran to 
meet me; the secondini endeavored to drive 
him away, but I took him in my arms, and 
dirty as he was, kissed him agtiin and again, 
with emotion, and tore myself from him, shall 
I say it — with my eyes full of tears. 



CHAPTER IX. 

My poor heart, thou lovest so easily and so 
ardently ! Yet to how many separations hast 
thou already been condemned? This was 
certainly not the least painful, and I felt it the 
more because my new lodging was very 
gloomy. A mean, dirty, dark room, its sin- 
gle window garnished with paper instead of 
glass. Its walls were disfigured with vile 
pictures, made of a color I dare not mention; 



the unpainted places were covered with in- 
scriptions. Many of these denoted the name, 
surname, and country, of some unfortunate 
man, together with the date of the sad day of 
his imprisonment. To some were appended 
imprecations against false friends, against 
themselves, against a wife, against their 
judges, &c. Others were short biographies, 
and others again contained moral sentences. 
I noticed these words of Pascal: 

" Let those who combat religion, learn, at 
least, what it is, before they combat it. If it 
boasted of having a clear view of God, and 
possessing him unveiled, it would be combat- 
ing it to say that we see nothing in the world 
which manifests him with such evidence ; but 
since it says, on the contrary, that men are in 
darkness, and remote from God, that he is con- 
cealed from their knowledge, and that is pre- 
cisely the name that he has given himself in 
the Scriptures — Deus absconditus . . . What 
advantage can they draw, when, in the negli- 
gence with which they profess to seek after 
truth, they declare that nothing shows it to 
them?" 

■ A little below were these words, from the 
same author: 

" The question, here, is not one of slight in- 
terest about other persons, it regards ourselves 
and our all. The immortality of the soul is a 
thing which concerns us so strongly, and 
touches us so deeply, that it is necessary to 
have lost all feeling, to be indifferent about 
knowing its importance !" 

Another inscription said: 

"Blessed be my prison, since it has taught 
the ingratitude of men, my own wretchedness, 
and the goodness of God." 

By the side of these humble words, were 
the most violent and proud imprecations of 
one who calls himself an Atheist, and who 
railed against God as if he had forgotten that 
he had just said, there is no God. 

After a column of such blasphemies, came 
another of abuses against cowards, — so he 
calls those whom the sufferings of a prison 
make religious. 

I showed these wicked effusions to one of 
the secondini, and asked him who wrote 
them. 



MY PRISONS. 



15 



" I am very glad to have found this inscrip- 
tion," said he, " there are so many, and I have 
so little time to look for them !" 

And, without saying more, he began, at 
once, to erase it from the wall, with his knife. 

" What is that for?" said I. 

"Because the poor fellow who wrote it, 
and was condemned to death, for premeditated 
murder, repented, and begged me to render 
him this service." 

"God forgive him!" I exclaimed, " what 
murder did he commit ?" 

" Not being able to destroy his enerry, he 
avenged himself by killing his son, the most 
beautiful child in the world." 

I shuddered. Can ferocity go to such 
lengths; and such a monster hold the lan- 
guage of a man, superior to all human weak- 
nesses ! Kill an innocent being ! a child ! 



CHAPTER X. 

In this new room, so dark and filthy, de- 
prived of the company of my dear mute, I 
was oppressed with sadness ; I passed whole 
hours at my window, which looked out upon 
a piazza, above which were to be seen the ex- 
tremity of the court, and the window of my 
former room. Who had succeeded me in it ? 
I saw a man walking with the rapid step of 
one deeply agitated. Two or three days after, 
I perceived that he had obtained writing ma- 
terials, and then he remained the whole day 
at his table. 

At length I recognized him : he was com- 
ing out of his room, accompanied by the jail- 
er, and was going to the examination; it was 
Melchiore Gioja ! 

My heart shrunk with pain. And thou, 
also, worthy man, art here ! (He was more 
fortunate than myself, for, after a short im- 
prisonment, he was restored to liberty.) 

The sight of any good being consoles me, 
calls forth my affection and makes me think. 
Ah ! to think and love are great blessings ! I 
would have given my life to rescue Gioja from 



prison, and yet the regret of him gave me 
comfort. 

After spending some lime in regarding him, 
and conjecturing by his motions whether his 
mind was tranquil or disturbed, and forming 
wishes. for him, I felt stronger, richer in ideas, 
and more satisfied with myself. This shows 
that the sight of a human being, for whom 
one feels affection, is sufficient to relieve 
the tedium of solitude. A poor mute had first 
given me this consolation, and I now derived 
it from the sight, although distant, of a man 
of great merit. 

Doubtless some secondino told him where I 
was. Opening his window, one morning, he 
waved his handkerchief by way of salutation. 
I answered him by the same sign. Oh ! with 
what pleasure was my soul inundated at that 
moment. It seemed to me that the distance 
between us had vanished, and we were to- 
gether. My heart palpitated like that of a 
lover who meets his beloved. We made ges- 
tures without understanding each other, yet 
with as much earnestness as if we were un- 
derstood; we did, in fact, comprehend each 
other — these gestures expressed all that our 
souls felt, and each knew the feelings of the 
other. 

Oh ! how much comfort these signs seemed 
to promise me in future. But the future 
came and they were not repeated. It was in 
vain that I shook my handkerchief every 
lime I saw Gioja at his window. The secon- 
dini informed me that he had been forbidden 
to provoke and answer my signals. Never- 
theless, he often looked at me, and I at him, 
and thus we could still express many things. 



CHAPTER XL 

Along the piazza, which was under my 
window, on a level with my room, other pris- 
oners, accompanied by a secondino, pass-d 
and repassed from morning to night. They 
were going to and returning from their ex- 
amination. They were mostly people of the 
lower class. Nevertheless, I saw some who 



10 



MY PRISONS. 



appeared to be of better condition. Although 
they passed so quickly that I could not ob- 
serve them well, they attracted ray attention, 
and all more or less interested me. This sad 
spectacle, for the first few days, increased my 
anguish ; but, by degrees, 1 grew accustomed 
to it, and at last it served to diminish the hor- 
rors of my solitude. Many females, likewise, 
passed under .my eyes, who had been arrest- 
ed. They went from this piazza, through an 
arch, into another court, where were the pris- 
ons and hospital for women. 

A single wall, quite thin, separated me 
from one of the rooms of these women. 
These poor creatures often deafened me with 
their songs, aLd sometimes with their quar- 
rels. And, at evening, when the noise had 
ceased, I heard them conversing together. 

If I had wished to enter into conversation 
with them, I could have done so; but I re- 
frained, I knew not why. Was it timidity, 
pride, or a prudent caution about attaching 
myself to degraded women ? It was, I be- 
lieve, all these considerations put together. 
Woman, when she is such as she ought to be, 
is to me a being so exalted ! To see her, lo 
hear her, to speak to her, fills my mind with 
noble images; but, when vile and debased, 
she disturbs, afflicts, and disenchants my 
heart. 

But (these buts are quite indispensable in 
painting man, a being so complex) among 
these females' voices, were some very sweet, 
and these, why not say it ? were dear to me ; 
one, especially, sweeter than ihe rest, was 
more seldom heard, and never expressed vul- 
gar thoughts. She sung a little, and general- 
ly these two touching lines : 

" Chi rende alia meschina 
La sua felicity ?" 

"Who to the wretched will restore 
The bliss that once was hers V 

Sometimes she chanted the litany : her 
companions assisted her, but I could recognize 
the voice of Magdalen among the rest, who 
always seemed determined to ravish it from 
me. 

Yes, this unfortunate woman was called 
Magdalen. When one of her companions re- 



lated her misfortunes to her, she sympathized 
and wept with her, repeating : "Courage, my 
dear, the Lord forsakes nobody." 

W T hat could prevent me from imagining her 
handsome, and more unfortunate than guilty; 
born for virtue; capable of returning to it, if 
she had abandoned it ? Who could blame me 
lor being affected by her voice, for listening to 
it with respect, for praying for her with pecu- 
liar fervor ? 

Innocence demands our respect, hut how 
much more does repentance ! Did the best of 
men, the God man, disdain to cast a look of 
compassion upon sinful women, to respect 
their confusion, and to place them in the num- 
ber of souls which he honored most? Why 
have we so much scorn for woman when 
fallen into disgrace? 

Reflecting thus, I was a hundred times 
tempted to raise my voice, and make a de- 
claration of paternal love to Magdalen. One 
day I had commenced the first syllable of her 
name: " Mag."— strange thing! my heart 
throbbed like that of a lover of fifteen, yet I 
was thirty-one; which is not the age for 
childish palpitations. 

I could go no further. I began again: 
" Mag. — Mag." — it was useless. I seemed 
ridiculous, and cried out in a rage: "Matlo /" 
(fool) and not Mag.! 



CHAPTER XII. 

Thus ended my romance with that unfor- 
tunate female, but, for several weeks, I was 
indebted to her for most agreeable feelings. I 
was often melancholy, and her voice cheered 
me; often while thinking of the baseness and 
ingratitude of men, I was mad against them — 
I embraced the whole universe in my hatred — 
but then the voice of Magdalen led me .ack 
to pity and indulgence. 

Oh ! couldst thou not, unknown sinner, have 
been condemned to a punishment too severe; 
or whatever be thy sufferings, couldst thou at 
least profit by them, so as to elevate thyself, 



MY PRISONS. 



17 



to live and die dear to the Saviour! Couldst 
thou be pitied and respected by all those who 
knew thee, as thou hast been by me who 
knew thee not ! Couldst thou inspire in all 
who see thee, patience, gentleness, the desire 
of virtue, confidence in God, as thou didst in- 
spire them in him who loved thee unseen ! 
My imagination may have erred in investing 
thee with a beautiful body, but thy soul, I 
am sure, was lovely. Thy companions spoke 
indelicately, but thou, always with modesty 
and politeness; they blasphemed God, and 
thou didst bless Him ; they quarrelled and 
thou wast a peacemaker among them. Ah ! 
if some one has stretched a hand to snatch 
thee from the career of dishonor; if he has 
conferred his benefit with delicacy, and wiped 
away thy tears, may all blessings be shower- 
ed upon him, upon his children, and his chil- 
dren's children. 

Near my own cell was another occu- 
pied by several men. I also heard them 
converse. One of them had acquired great au- 
thority over the others, not that he was of a 
superior condition, but because he had more 
audacity and boldness. As the saying is, he 
acted the doctor: he quarrelled and imposed 
silence upon his antagonist, by the imperious 
tone of his voice, and the clamor of his words. 
He dictated to them what they should think 
and feel ; and they, after some resistance, end- 
ed by yielding to him in everything. 

Wretched men! there was not one among 
them who alleviated the tedium of a prison 
by expressing a single tender sentiment, a 
single thought of religion and of love ! 

The chief of these, my neighbors, saluted 
me, and I answered him. He asked how 
I stood that cursed, life? I answered that, 
for me, no life was cursed, however sad it 
might be, and that the enjoyment of think- 
ing and loving should be sought for until 
death. 

'•Explain yourself, sir, explain yourself." 

I did so, but was not understood. And, 
when after some ingenious preliminaries, I ven- 
tured to adduce as an example, the lively ten- 
derness which the voice of Magdalen had pro- 
duced in me, the chief burst into a violent fit 
of laughter. 



" What is it ? what is it ?" exclaimed his 
companions. 

The profane man reported my words, dis- 
torting them for the purpose of ridicule ; shouts 
of laughter burst forth in full chorus, and I 
cut the figure of a complete fbol. 

It is the same thing in prison as in the 
world : they who rest their wisdom upon fret- 
ting, complaining, and vilifying others, regard 
as foolishness, the feelings of love and pity, I 
and the need of consoling ourselves by those 
noble powers of imagination, which honor 
humanitv and its Author. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

I let them laugh on without saying a word. 
Two or three times they spoke to me, but I 
remained silent. 

" He must have left his window. He must 
have gone. He must be listening to Magda- 
len's sighs. He must have been offended by 
our laughing." 

They went on talking for a short time, 
when at length the chief imposed silence 
upon the others who were amusing them- 
selves at my expense. 

" Silence, you brutes, you don't know what 
you are talking about. Our neighbor is not 
such an ass as you think. You are incapable 
of reflecting upon anything. For myself I 
laugh at first, but afterwards I reflect. All 
detestable scoundrels know how to act like 
madmen as well as we do. But a little more 
pleasant cheerfulness, a little more charity, a 
little more confidence in the goodness of Prov- 
idence, frankly now, in your opinion, what 
does that indicate ?" 

" Now that I reflect also," answered one of 
them, "it seems to me to be a sign that the 
man is somewhat less of a ruffian than we 
are." 

" Bravo !" exclaimed the chief, in a stento- 
rian voice; "now, I begin to have some 
esteem for thy cabbage-head." 

I did not pride myself much on being con- 



IS 



MY PRISONS. 



sidered only somewhat less of a rascal than 
these fellows; and yet I felt a kind of joy that 
such degraded men recognized the importance 
of cultivating henevolent feelings. 

I rattled the window-sash as if I had re- 
turned to it. The chief called to me; I an- 
swered him, hoping that he was desirous of 
moralizing after my own manner. I was 
mistaken : vulgar minds banish serious re- 
flection ; if a noble truth breaks upon them, 
they are capable of applauding it a mo- 
ment; but they soon turn their attention away 
from it, and cannot resist the desire of show- 
ing their wit, by casting the truth into doubt, 
or turning it into ridicule. 

He asked me if I was in prison for debt. 

"No." 

" Perhaps, accused of theft ? accused false- 
ly, understand." 

"I am accused of quite a different thing." 

"Some love affair ?" 

"No." 

"Murder?" 

"No." 

" Carboneria . ? " 

"Precisely." 

" And who are these Carbonari?" 

"I know so little of them that I cannot de- 
scribe them." 

A secondino, in a violent rage, interrupted 
us, and after loading my neighbors with 
abuse, he turned to me, with more of the 
gravity of a master than of a sbiro, and said : 
" It is shameful, sir, to stoop to converse with 
all sorts of people ! Do you know that these 
men are thieves?" 

I blushed, and then I blushed again for 
having blushed, for it seemed to me that to 
condescend to converse with all classes of the 
unhappy, is rather an act of kindness than a 
fault. 



• CHAPTER XIV. 

The next morning I placed myself at the 
window 10 see Melchiore Gioja, but conversed 
no more with the thieves. 1 replied to their 



salutation, but told them I had been forbidden 
to talk. 

The registrar who had questioned me at my 
examinations, came in to announce to me, in 
a mysterious manner, a visit that would give 
me pleasure. When he thought me suffi- 
ciently prepared, he said, "It is your father, 
please to follow me." 

I followed him below into the offices, pal- 
pitating with joy and tenderness; yet forcing 
myself to assume an air of calmness which 
might tranquillize my poor father. 

W hen he received information of my arrest, 
he hoped it had taken place upon suspicions 
of little weight, and that I would soon be re- 
stored to liberty. But seeing that my deten- 
tion was prolonged, he had come to solicit 
the Austrian government for my release. 
Lamentable illusion of paternal love ! He 
could not believe that I had been rash enough 
to expose myself to the rigor of the laws ; and 
the studied cheerfulness with which I spoke, 
persuaded him that I had no misfortune 
to fear. 

The short conversation which was allowed 
us, agitated me inexpressibly; the more 
so, that I strove to conceal all appearance of 
agitation. It was the greatest difficulty not 
to manifest it when it became necessary 
to separate. 

In the circumstances in which Italy then 
was, I felt convinced that Austria would give 
some extraordinary examples of rigor, and 
that I should be condemned to death or 
many years of imprisonment. To conceal 
this conviction from my father! to delude 
him with the false hope of soon regaining 
my liberty ! Not to burst into tears in em- 
bracing him, while speaking of my mother, 
of my brothers and sisters, whom I expected 
never to see again upon earth ! To beg him 
with an unfaltering voice to come and see me 
again if he could ! No. I never did such 
violence to my feelings. 

He left me quite consoled, while I returned 
to my prison with a bruised heart. When I 
found myself alone, I hoped to find relief 
in giving way to tears. This solace failed 
me. I was convulsed with sobs, but could 
not shed a tear. The pain of not being able 



MY PRISONS. 



1 9 



to weep, is, in great misfortunes, one of 
the most cruel sufferings; and oh! how 
many times I have experienced it ! 

I was seized with a burning fever and 
a violent head-ache. During the whole day 
I was unable to swallow even a drop of 
broth. "Would that this sickness were 
mortal," I exclaimed, " which might abbrevi- 
ate my torments." 

Foolish and cowardly desire ! God did not 
grant it, and now I thank him for it; I thank 
him not only because, after ten years of 
imprisonment, I have again beheld my 
dear family and can call myself happy, but 
because suffering adds worth to man, and I 
am willing to hope that mine has not been 
useless to me. 



CHAPTER XV. 

Two days after, my father returned. I 
had slept well during the night, and was 
without fever. I put on a calm countenance 
and a cheerful air, and nobody suspected what 
my heart had suffered, and was still suffering. 

"I trust," said' my father, "that within a 
few days you will be sent back to Turin. 
We have already prepared your room, and 
are expecting you with great anxiety. The 
duties of my situation oblige me to return. 
Make an effort, I beg you, to rejoin me soon." 

His gentle and melancholy tenderness 
wrung my heart. Dissimulation seemed 
to be enjoined upon me by filial pietv, yet I 
dissembled with a kind of remorse. It had 
been more worthy of my father and myself if 
I had said to him, "It is probable that 
we shall see each other no more in this 
world ! Let us part like men, without a 
murmur and without complaint. Let me 
hear you pronounce a paternal benediction 
upon my head." 

This language would have been a thou- 
sand times more suitable to me than thai of 
dissimulation, but I looked at the eyes of the 
venerable old man, at his features and his 
grey hair, and it seemed to me that ihe 



unhappy old man had not strength enough to 
hear such things. 

And if, through my unwillingness to deceive 
him, I had seen him giving up to despair, 
perhaps fainting away, perhaps (horrible 
idea!) falling dead in my arms! 

I could not then tell him the truth, nor 
even let him discover it. My feigned serenity 
completely deceived him. We parted with- 
out tears. But having returned to my prison 
I was a prey to the same anguish, and even 
more violent than at his first visit; in vain 
did I invoke the gift of tears. 

To resign myself to all the horrors of 
a long imprisonment, to the scaffold, was 
not above my strength; but to resign myself 
to the overwhelming affliction which my 
father, mother, brothers and sisters were 
about to experience, alas! my strength was 
not adequate to this. 

I prostrated myself upon the earth, and 
with a fervor which I had never felt, I 
uttered this prayer : " My God, I accept all at 
thy hand; but fortify so strongly those hearts 
to which I was necessary, that I may cease to 
be so, and let none of their lives be, on 
this account, shortened a single day." 

Oh, the benefit of prayer! I remained 
many hours with my mind elevated to God 
and my confidence increased, in proportion as 
I meditated upon the divine goodness, in 
proportion as I meditated upon the grandeur 
of the human soul when stripped of its selfish- 
ness, and when it forces itself to have no 
other will than that of Infinite Wisdom, 

Yes, it can be so, and such is the duty of 
man. Reason, which is the voice of God, 
reason says that we ought to sacriSce every- 
thing to virtue. And shall we accomplish 
this sacrifice which we owe to it, if, in 
our greatest afflictions, we strive against the 
will of Him who is the source of all virtue? 
When the gibbet or any other species of 
martyrdom is inevitable, to fear it like a 
coward, and not to know how to walk to it 
blessing the Lord, is the index of miserable 
degradation or ignorance. We ought not 
only to consent to our own death, but also to 
the affliction which those who love us, must 
feel. All that is permitted us to ask of God, 



go 



MY PRISONS. 



is to temper it, to come to the aid of each of 
us; such a prayer is always answered. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Many days passed by and I remained 
in the same state; that is, in a sweet sad- 
ness, full of peace and religious thoughts. I 
seemed to have triumphed over all weakness 
! and to be no longer accessible to any dis- 
quietude. Foolish illusion ! Man ought to 
! strive after perfect constancy, but he never 
attains it upon earth. What could have 
j disturbed me? The sight of an unhappy 
| f r iend — of my good Piero, who passed at 
! a little distance from me, on the piazza, 
! while I was at the window. He had been 
I dragged from his home to be conducted to 
| the criminal prison. He and those who 
j attended him passed so quickly that I had 
scarcely time to recognize him and return his 
salutation. 

Poor young man ! in the flower of his age, 
with a genius of splendid promise, a character 
j honorable; delicate, affectionate, formed to 
! enjoy life gloriously, to be thrown into prison 
for political reasons, at a time when it was 
almost impossible to escape the terrible thun- 
derbolts of the law ! 

I felt such compassion for him, I had such 
a lively sorrow that I could not save him, nor 
even console him by my presence and my 
words, that nothing availed to restore me to 
calmness. I knew how much he loved his 
mother, his brother, his sisters, his brother- 
in-law, and his little nephews; how much he 
desired to contribute to their happiness; how 
much he was beloved by all these dear 
objects, and I felt what must be tfre affliction 
of each of them in so great a calamity. No 
terms can express the frenzy which then took 
possession of me ; and this paroxysm lasted 
so long that I despaired of ever appeasing it. 
Even this fear was an illusion. O ye afflicted, 
who think yourselves a prey to an insur- 
mountable, horrible, and ever increasing 
grief, have a little patience and you will be 



undeceived. Neither extreme calmness nor 
extreme disquietude can last a long time. It 
behooves us to be persuaded of this truth, in 
order to prevent us from becoming insolent in 
the hour of prosperity, and dejected in that of 
adversity. 

Lassitude and apathy succeeded this long 
paroxysm of rage. But the apathy did not 
last long, and I feared lest in future I should 
alternate without repose between this and 
the opposite extreme. I shuddered at the 
prospect of such a future, and again had 
recourse to ardent prayer. 

I besought God to assist my unhappy 
Piero as well as myself, and his family as 
well as my own. It was only in repeating 
these aspirations that I obtained real tran- 
quillity. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

When my mind had become calm, I re- 
flected upon the fury to which I had been a 
prey, and angry at myself on account of my 
weakness, I studied the means of curing it. 
Behold the expedient which I employed for 
that purpose. Each morning my first occu- 
pation, after a short prayer to the Creator, 
was to make a diligent and courageous ex- 
amination of every possible event, which was 
capable of disturbing me. I fixed my imagi- 
nation steadily upon each of them and pre- 
pared myself for it. From the dearest visit 
to that of the executioner, I imagined all. 
For several days this sad exercise appeared 
insupportable, but I endeavored to persevere, 
and soon I had reason to be glad of it. 

On the first day of the year 1821, Count 
Luigi Porro obtained permission to come to 
see me. The tender and warm friendship 
which united us, the desire we felt of saying 
so many things, the hindrance to the outpour- 
ing of our hearts caused by the presence of a 
sheriff, the little time permitted us to remain 
together, the dark presentiments which beset 
me, the efforts which we both made to ap- 
pear tranquil, all this seemed sufficient to 



MY PRISONS. 



21 



raise the most violent storm in my heart. 
But when separated from this clear friend, I 
felt deeply touched, yet calm. 

Such is the power we gain by fortifying 
ourselves against strong emotions. 

My effort to acquire a constant calmness 
did not proceed so much from the desire of 
diminishing my un happiness as from the 
feeling that disquietude is an indication of 
weakness, and unworthy of a man. A mind 
in agitation ceases to reason ; wrapped in 
an irresistible whirlwind of exaggerated ideas 
it forms to itself a blind, mad, and perverse 
logic; it is in a state absolutely anti-phi- 
losophical and anti-christian. 

If I were a preacher, I would insist fre- 
quently upon the necessity of banishing in- 
quietude; one cannot be good short of this. 
How much at peace with himself and with 
all others, was He whom we all ought to 
imitate ! There can be neither greatness of 
soul nor justice without moderation in our 
ideas, and a mind disposed rather to smile at 
than to quarrel with the events of this short 
life. Anger is never useful except in those 
extremely rare cases in which one may hope 
by its means to humble a transgressor and 
withdraw him from iniquity. 

There are, perhaps, irritations of a different 
nature from any with which I am acquainted, 
and which are less blameable; but that to 
which I had hitherto been the slave was not 
an irritation caused by mere affliction ; there 
was always mingled with it much hatred, a 
great desire to curse, and to paint society, or 
this or that individual, in the most odious 
colors. True epidemic of this world! Man 
esteems himself better when he hates his 
fellows. All friends seem to whisper to each 
other in confidence : " Let us love only 
among ourselves ; let us proclaim that others 
are but vile plebeians, and then we shall 
appear demi-gods." 

Strange thing! that men should find in 
passion so many attractions. They even 
bring to it a kind of heroism. If the object 
which they hated yesterday happens to die, 
they immediately look about for another. 
" Of whom shall I complain to-day ? Whom 
shall I hate? Who shall be the monster? 



joy ! I have found him ! Come, friends, let 
us tear him to pieces." 

Thus goes the world, and without slander- 
ing it, I can truly say that it goes badly. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

It was no great malice in me to complain 
of the horrid room to which they had con- 
signed me. Fortunately a better one soon 
became vacant, and they afforded me the 
agreeable surprise of giving it to me. 

Ought I not to have been much pleased at 
the news ? And yet, so it was, I could not 
think of Magdalen without regret. What 
childishness, to attach one's self always to 
something, yet, in truth, with scarcely any 
reason whatever. In leaving that wretched 
cell I once more turned my eyes towards the 
wall against which I had so often leaned, 
whilst a foot distant, perhaps the poor sinner 
was leaning against the other side. I wanted 
to hear once more those two lines so touch- 
ing : 

" Chi rende alia meschina 
La sua felicita ?" 

" Who to the wretched will restore 
The bliss that once was hers V 

Vain desire ! It was one separation more in 
pay unhappy life. I will not speak more at 
length about it, lest I may be laughed at, but 
it would be hypocrisy not to confess that I 
was sad on account of it for many days. 

In going away, I said "adieu" to two of 
the thieves, my neighbors, who were at the 
window. The chief was not there, but when 
informed by his companions, he ran up and 
replied to my salutation. Then he com- 
menced humming the air, " Chi rende alia 
meschina." Did he wish to ridicule me ? I 
would lay a wager, that if this question were 
put to fifty persons, forty-nine would answer 
" yes." Well, in spite of so great a majority, 
I incline to believe that this good thief wished 
to do me an act of politeness. I received it as 
such, and testified my gratitude to him by a 



22 



MY PRISONS. 



last look: and he, thrusting his arm between 
the bars, with his cap in his hand, again 
made me a sign when I was turning to 
descend ihe stairs. 

When I was in the court-yard, I found a 
consolation. My little mute friend was under 
the portico. He saw and recognized me, and 
was running to meet me, when the jailer's 
wife, I know not why, seized him by the 
collar and shoved him into the house. I was 
pained not to be able to embrace him, but the 
little jumps that he made to meet me, gave 
me delicious emotions. It is so sweet to be 
loved ! 

That was a day of great adventures. Two 
steps further I found myself near the window 
of my former room, which Gioja now occu- 
pied. " Good morning, Melchiore,'' said I to 
him, in passing. He raised his head, and 
starting towards me, exclaimed, " Good 
morning, ^Silvio!" 

Alas! I was not permitted to stop a mo- 
ment. I turned under the doorway, ascended 
some steps, and found myself in a neat little 
chamber above that of Gioja. 

After my bed had been brought, and the 
secondini had left me alone, my first care was 
to make a survey of the walls. There were 
written several memorials, some with a pen- 
cil or coal, others with a sharp pointed instru- 
ment. I found two elegant stanzas in French, 
which I now regret not having learned by 
heart. They were signed " Le Due tie Nor- 
mandie" I tried to sing them, adapting to 
them, as well as I was able, the air of my 
poor Magdalen. But behold, another voice 
from the adjoining room commenced singing 
them to a different air. When the singer 
had finished, I cried, "Bravo!" He saluted 
me politely, and asked if I was a Frenchman. 

"No; I am an Italian, and my name 
is Silvio Pellico." 

"The author of 'Francesca da Rimini?'" 

"Precisely." 

Here he paid me a delicate compliment, 
and offered the natural condolences on learn- 
ing that I was in prison. 

He inquired in what part of Italy I was born. 

" In Piedmont," I replied; "I am from Sa- 
luces." 



He again made me a gracious compliment 
upon the character and genius of the Pied- 
monlese, mentioning particularly the men of 
merit born at Saluces, especially Bodoni. 
These praises were refined and delicate, evi- 
dently denoting the speaker to be a man 
of good education. 

" Permit me now, sir," said I, " to ask who 
you are?" 

"You just now sung one of my songs." 

"Are the two beautiful stanzas yours, that 
are written upon the wall ?" 

" Yes, sir." 

" You are, then" 

" The unfortunate Duke of Normandy." 



CHAPTER XIX. 

The jailer passed under our window, and 
made us keep silence. " What unfortunate 
Duke of Normandy ?" said I to myself. " Is 
not that the title given to the son of Louis 
XVI. ? But that poor child is dead : there is 
no doubt of it. Well, my neighbor must be 
one of those unhappy men who have tried to 
bring him to life. Many persons have already 
claimed to be Louis XVII., and been disco- 
vered to be impostors: what greater credit 
does he expect to obtain?" 

Although I endeavored to remain in doubt, 
an irresistible incredulity prevailed in my 
mind, and still continues to do so. I deter- 
mined, however, not to mortify the unhappy 
man, whatever fable he might relate to me. 

A few minutes after, he began to sing again, 
and we afterwards resumed the conversation. 

To my question in relation to his real rank, 
he replied, that he was, indeed, Louis XVII., 
and proceeded to declaim violently against his 
uncle, Louis XVIII., the usurper of his rights. 

"But how is it that you did not assert 
these rights at the time of the Restoration ?" 

"I was at that time dangerously sick at 
Bologna. Scarcely recovered, I flew to Paris, 
and presented myself to the Allied Powers; 
but what was done was done: my uncle un- 



MY PRISONS. 



23 



justly refused to recognize me, and my sister 
joined with him to crush me. The good 
Prince of Conde alone received me with open 
arms, but his friendship availed me nothing. 
One evening, in the streets of Paris, I was 
assailed by assassins, armed with poniards, 
and escaped from their blows with much 
difficulty. After having wandered sometime 
* in Normandy, I returned to Italy and stopped 
at Modena. From that place I wrote without 
cessatiou to all the monarchs of Europe, and 
particularly to the Emperor Alexander, who 
always replied to me with the greatest po- 
liteness. I did not despair of obtaining justice 
at length, or at least a decent pension, if state 
policy demanded the sacrifice of my rights to 
the throne of France. I was arrested, con- 
ducted to the confines of the duchy of Modena, 
and delivered to the Austrian government. It 
is now eight months that I have been buried 
in this place, and God knows when I shall go 
out of it." 

I did not give credit to all his words ; but 
that he was buried in prison was but too true; 
and this alone inspired me with a lively com- 
passion for %i m. 

I begged him to relate to me briefly the 
story of his life. He narrated minutely all the 
particulars which I knew already concerning 
Louis XVII. : how he had been shut up with 
the villain, Simon the cobbler; how he had 
been forced to testify to an infamous slander 
against the habits of the poor Queen his mo- 
ther, &c. ; and finally, how some people came 
to his prison to take him, and after having 
substituted a stupid child named Mathurin in 
his place, they carried him off. There was 
in the street a carriage with four horses, of 
which one was a machine of wood, in which 
they concealed him. They arrived with good 
fortune at the banks of the Rhine; and when 

they had passed the frontier, General 

(he told me his name, but I do not recollect 
it), the General who had liberated him served 
him for some time in the capacity of tutor and 
father, and afterwards sent or conducted him 
to America. There the young king, without 
a kingdom, experienced many vicissitudes, 
suffered hunger in the wilderness, engaged in 
war, lived honorably and happily at the court 



of the king of Brazil ; was afterwards calum- 
niated, persecuted, and obliged to fly. Having 
returned to Europe towards the close of the 
reign of Napoleon, he was detained a prisoner 
at Naples by Joachim Murat ; and when he 
saw himself free and in a position to reclaim 
the throne of France, he was attacked at 
Bologna with that unlucky malady, during 
which Louis XVIII. was crowned. 



CHAPTER XX. 

He related this story with a surprising air 
of truth. I could not believe it, and yet I 
admired it. All the events of the French 
Revolution were perfectly well known to him. 
He spoke of them with much natural elo- 
quence, and told, apropos to each, several 
curious anecdotes. There was* something 
rather soldierlike in his language, yet there 
was no lack of that elegance which inter- 
course with good society confers. 

" Will you permit me," said I, " to treat 
you familiarly, and without giving you your 
title?" 

" That is what I desire," he replied. "Mis- 
fortune has at least been so far profitable to 
me, that I can smile at all vanities. I assure 
you that I esteem myself much more as a man 
than as a king." 

Morning and evening we conversed a long 
time together; and although I was persuaded 
that he was acting a farce, his heart appeared 
to be good, candid, and fond of whatever is 
excellent. Many times I was on the point of 
saying to him : "Pardon me, I should like to 
believe that you are Louis XVII., but I con- 
fess to you, sincerely, that I am ruled by a 
contrary conviction ; have the candor to aban- 
don this fiction." And I meditated a beautiful 
little sermon for him upon the vanity of all 
lies, even those which appeared inoffensive. 

I deferred it from day to day, waiting until 
our intimacy should still further increase, and 
never had the courage to execute my design. 
When I reflected upon this want of courage, 
I often attempted to excuse it on the ground 



24 



MY PRISONS. 



of politeness, an honest fear of giving pain — 
what do I know ? But these excuses did not 
satisfy me ; and I cannot disguise it from my- 
self, that I should feel much better satisfied 
with my own conduct if this sermon which I 
prepared had not stuck in my throat. It is 
cowardice to feign to give credit to an impos- 
ture. It appears to me that I would never do 
it again. Yes, cowardice! Surely, no matter 
how delicately the meaning is enveloped, it is 
a bitter thing to say to a man, " I do not be- 
lieve you." He will be angry ; we shall lose 
the pleasure of his friendship ; perhaps he may 
even overwhelm us with abuse. But all loss 
is more honorable than falsehood ; and per- 
haps, also, the unhappy man who shall have 
loaded us with abuse, seeing that his impos- 
ture is not believed, will in secret admire our 
sincerity, and finish by yielding himself to 
those reflections which will bring him back to 
a better course. 

The seco'ndini seemed inclined to believe 
that their prisoner was, in fact, Louis XVII.; 
they had already seen so many mutations of 
fortune, that they did not despair of seeing 
him one day mount the throne of France, and 
then remember their devoted services. With 
the exception of lending their aid to his 
escape, they lavished upon him ail the atten- 
tions which he could desire. 

I was indebted to this circumstance for the 
honor of seeing this grand personage. He 
was of middle stature, forty or forty-five years 
of age, rather inclined to corpulence, with a 
truly Bourbon physiognomy. It was probably 
this accidental resemblance to the Bourbons 
which had suggested to him the idea of play- 
ing this sad character. 



CHAPTER XXL 

I must accuse myself of another unworthy 
sacrifice to human respect. My neighbor was 
not an atheist, and even spoke sometimes of 
his religious feelings, like a man who appre- 
ciates and is not a stranger to them; but he 
entertained many unreasonable objections 



against Christianity, which he regarded less 
in its true essence than in its abuses. The 
superficial philosophy which had preceded 
and followed the Revolution in France, had 
dazzled him. He thought that we might 
worship God with more purity than according 
to the religion of the Gospel. Without pos- 
sessing any great knowledge of Condillac and 
Tracy, he revered them as profound thinkers, 
and imagined that the latter had succeeded in 
resolving all the possible questions of meta- 
physics. 

I, who had pushed my philosophical studies 
further, who perceived the weakness of ex- 
perimental doctrine, who knew into what 
gross errors of criticism the age of Voltaire 
had fallen, in its eagerness to defame Christ- 
ianity — I, who had read Guenee and other 
writers who have boldly unmasked this false 
criticism— I, who was persuaded that in strict 
logic we cannot admit a God and reject the 
Gospel — I, who considered it so vulgar a thing 
to follow the current of anti-Christian opinions, 
and not know how to rise to acknowledge 
how simple and sublime is Christianity when 
viewed in a proper light — alas! I«tvas coward 
enough to sacrifice to human respect. The 
jests of my neighbor confounded me, although 
convinced of their futility. I dissembled my 
belief, hesitated, and reflected if it were pro- 
per or not to contradict him; I said to myself 
that it was useless, and wished to persuade 
myself that I was justifiable. 

Cowardice! cowardice! Of what conse- 
quence is the bold vigor of received opinions, 
unless they rest upon some foundation ? It is 
true that an unseasonable zeal is indiscreet, 
and may still more irritate the unbeliever. 
But to confess with frankness, and at the same 
time with modesty, what a man firmly be- 
lieves to be an important truth ; to confess it 
even when it is presumable that the avowal 
will not be received with approbation, but 
disdain, is an imperative duty. And this noble 
confession can always be made without taking 
at an improper time the tone of a missionary. 

It is a duty to confess an important truth at 
all times; for if there.is not reason to expect 
that it will be recognized immediately, it can 
nevertheless so prepare the minds of others, 



MY PRISONS. 



25 



that it will one day produce a greater impar- 
tiality of judgment, and the consequent tri- 
umph of the light. 



CHAPTER XXIL 

I remained in that room a month and 
several days. On the night of the I8th of 
i February, 1821, I was awakened by the rat- 
I tling of chains and keys; I saw many men 
' entering my room with a lantern : the first 
\ idea that struck me was, that they had come 
; to murder me. But whilst I was regarding 
* these figures with anxiety, Count B**** po- 
litely advanced towards me, and desired me 
to dress myself immediately, in order to 
depart. 

This announcement surprised me, and I had 
the folly to hope I was to be conducted to the 
frontiers of Piedmont. Can it be possible that 
so great a tempest has so soon passed away ? 
Shall I once more regain sweet liberty ? again 
see my beloved parents, and brothers, and 
sisters ? 

These delusive thoughts agitated me for 
some minutes. I dressed in great haste, and 
followed my conductors, without having time 
to bid adieu to my neighbor. It seemed to 
me that I heard his voice, and it grieved me 
not to be able to reply to him. 

" Where are you going ?" said I to the 
Count, while entering the carriage with him 
and an officer of the guard. 

" I cannot tell you till we are a mile from 
Milan." 

I saw that the carriage was not going in 
the direction of the Vercellini gate, and all 
my hopes vanished ! 

I remained silent. It was a most beautiful 
night, the moon shining in full splendor. I 
surveyed those dear streets where I had 
walked so many years, so happy then ! The 
houses, the churches, all recalled to me a 
thousand pleasing associations. 

thou walk of the Oriental gate, and ye 
public gardens, where I have wandered so 



many times with Foscolo, Monti, Lodovico 
di Breme, Pietro Borsieri, Porro and his two 
sons, and with so many other dear friends, 
conversing in all the plenitude of life and 
hope ! As T said to myself that I was behold- 
ing you for the last time, as I saw you rapidly 
disappearing from my sight, how I felt 
that I had loved you, and loved you still! 
When we had passed the gate, I pulled my 
hat over my eyes and wept unperceived. 

I allowed more than a mile to pass, and 
then said to Count B****, "I suppose we are 
going to Verona ?" 

"Further," he replied; "we are going 
to Venice, where I am to put you into the 
'hands of a special commission." 

We travelled by post, without stopping, and 
on the 20th of February, arrived at Venice. 

In September of the preceding year, one 
month before my arrest, I was at Venice, and 
dined with a numerous and joyous company 
at the hotel della Luna. Strange ! it was to 
the same hotel that the Count and guard 
conducted me. 

A servant started in recognizing me, and 
perceiving that I was in the hands of the offi- 
cers of justice (although the guard and his 
two assistants were disguised so as to look 
like my servants). I rejoiced at this rencounter, 
persuaded that the servant would tell more 
than one person of my arrival. 

We dined, and afterwards I was conducted 
to the palace of the Doge, where the tribunal 
was then in session. I passed under those 
dear porticoes of the Procurati, and before the 
Florian coffee-house, where I had enjoyed so 
many pleasant evenings the autumn before ; 
I had not the fortune to meet with any one of 
my acquaintance. 

We crossed the Piazzetta — the same Piaz- 
zetta where, last September, a mendicant had 
addressed me with these singular words : " It 
is easy to see that you are a stranger, sir; but 
I do not conceive why you and all strangers 
admire this place; for me it is a place of 
misfortune, and I never pass it except from 
necessity." 

" Perhaps some misfortune has happened 
to you here ?" 
"Yes, sir, a horrible misfortune; and not 



26 



MY PRISONS. 



to me only ! God preserve you from it !" and 
he left me in great haste. 

As I now again passed over the same place, 
it was impossible not to remember the words 
of the mendicant. It was again on that same 
Piazzetta, that in the following year I mount- 
ed the scaffold to hear my sentence of death 
read ; and the commutation of that sentence 
to fifteen years of carceri duro ! (close con- 
finement). 

If my head were ever so little troubled with 
superstitious notions, I should attach much 
importance to that mendicant, who so ear- 
nestly assured me that it was an unlucky 
place. But I notice the fact only as a strange 
coincidence. 

We ascended to the palace; Count B* ### 
spoke to the judges, and consigned me to the 
hands of the jailer ; and in taking leave of me, 
he embraced me with emotion. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

I followed the jailer in silence. After 
having traversed many corridors and rooms, 
we reached a little staircase which conducted 
us under the Leads, a famous state prison 
since the time of the republic of Venice. 

The jailer registered my name, and shut me 
up in the chamber assigned to me. 

What is called the Leads, is the upper part 
of the old palace of the Doge, entirely covered 
with lead. 

My room had one large window, with an 
enormous grate, and looked upon the roof of 
St. Mark's church, also covered with lead. 
Beyond the church, I saw in the distance the 
end of the Piazzetta, and a great number of 
cupolas and steeples on all sides. The gigantic 
steeple of St. Mark was distant from me only 
the length of the church, and I heard those 
who were upon the top speak quite plainly. 
On the left side of the church could also be 
seen a part of the great court of the palace, 
and one of the entrances. In that part of the 
court is a public well, whence people were 
constantly coming to draw water; but my 



room was so high, that men appeared to me 
no larger than children, and I could distinguish 
their words only when they screamed. Thus 
I was much more solitary than in the prisons 
of Milan. 

During the first days, the cause of the 
criminal prosecution, which was brought 
against me by the special commission, made 
me rather sad, and to this was added, perhaps, 
the painful feeling of a greater solitude. I 
was, besides, further removed from my family, 
and no longer received any news of them. 
The new faces that I saw were not unfriendly 
to me, but they kept a seriousness almost 
alarming. Report had exaggerated to them 
the conspiracies of the Milanese, and of the 
rest of Italy, for independence, and they 
doubted not that I was one the least pardon- 
able among the instigators of that mad plot. 
My little literary celebrity was known to the 
jailer, his wife, his daughter, his two sons, 
and even the two secondini. Who knows if 
they did not all regard a writer of tragedies 
as a kind of sorcerer ? 

They were serious, cautious, eager to know 
all that concerned me, but full of politeness. 

After a few days, their manners were soft- 
ened, and I found them kind. The wife was I 
the one who most preserved the character and 
tone of a jailer. She was a woman of about 
forty years, exceedingly dry both in face and 
words, and appearing incapable of kindness 
for anything except her children. 

She used to bring me coffee in the morning 
and after dinner; also, water, linen, &c. She 
was generally accompanied by her daughter, 
a girl of fifteen, not pretty, but of a compas- 
sionate expression, and by her two sons, one 
of thirteen years and the other one of ten. 
They retired with their mother; and these 
three young faces were gently turned back to 
look at me, while closing the door. The 
jailer made his appearance only when he had 
to conduct me to the room where the com- 
mission was assembled to examine me. The 
secondini came rarely, because they had to 
attend to the prisons of the police, situated a 
story below me, containing always many 
thieves. One of these secondini was an old 
man of more than seventy years, still adequate 



MV PRISONS. 



21 



to this fatiguing life of constantly running up 
and down the stairs of the various prisons; 
the other was a young man of twenty-four or 
five years, more ready to narrate his love 
affairs than to perform his duty. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

Ah, yes ! the cares of a criminal prosecution 
are horrible to a man charged with a state 
offence. What fear of injuring others! What 
difficulty to struggle against so many accusa- 
tions, against so many suspicions ! What 
apprehensions lest everything should become 
involved, every day, more unluckily, if the 
trial is not soon terminated, if new arrests are 
made, if new indiscretions are discovered, not 
only of unknown persons, but of the party 
, itself! 

Having resolved not to speak of politics, I 
must necessarily suppress everything relating 
to my trial. I will only say that, often after 
passing long hours at the examination, I 
returned to my room so much exasperated 
I and so furious, that I should have put an end 
to my own life, if the voice of religion and the 
remembrance of my dear parents had not 
restrained me. 

The habit of calmness, which I seemed to 
; have acquired at Milan, had forsaken me; 
; for many days I despaired of regaining it : they 
\ were for me days of hell. Then I ceased to 
pray ; I doubted the justice of God ; I cursed 
I mankind and the whole universe, and revolved 
, in my mind all possible sophisms on the vanity 
of virtue. 

The unhappy and infuriated man is fearfully 
ingenious in calumniating his fellow-beings, 
I and even the Creator himself. Anger is more 
' immoral and more criminal than it is generally 
thought. He cannot rave from morning to 
night, for weeks; the soul most swayed by 
fury has of necessity its intervals of repose; 
and those intervals are commonly affected by 
the immorality that has preceded them. 
Then he will seem to enjoy peace; but it is a 



malignant and impious peace ; a savage smile, 
without charity, without dignity; a love of 
disorder, of intoxication, and of scorn. 

In such a state, I sung entire hours, with a 
sort of levity totally void of good feelings ; I 
joked with all who came into my chamber ; I 
forced myself to regard everything with a 
vulgar wisdom, the wisdom of the cynic. 

This infamous time was of short duration — 
six or seven days. 

My Bible was covered with dust. One of 
the sons of the jailer, while caressing me one 
day, said: "Since the gentleman stopped 
reading this bad book, he is not so melancholy, 
it seems to me." 

" It seems to you ?" said I. 

And taking the Bible, I brushed off the dust 
with my handk^chief, and opening it at ran- 
dom, my eyes fell upon these words : " Then 
said he unto his disciples, It is impossible but 
that offences will come; but woe unto him 
through whom they come ! It were better 
for him that a millstone were hanged about 
his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that 
he should offend one of these little ones." 

I was struck at finding these words, and 
blushed that the boy had perceived that I no 
longer read the Bible, by the dust which was 
upon it, and that he could think I had become 
more amiable in neglecting God. 

"Little rogue!" said I to him with a ca- 
ressingreproach, and sorry to have scandalized 
him, " this is not a bad book, and for several 
days that I have not read it I have been much 
worse. When your mother allows you to 
remain a moment with me, I try to drive 
away my bad humor; but if you knew how 
it overcomes me when I am alone, when you 
hear me sing like a madman !" 



CHAPTER XXV. 

The boy was gone — and I experienced a 
real joy that I had taken again my Bible in 
hand, and had confessed that I was worse 
without it. It seemed tome that I had made 



28 



MY PRISONS. 



reparation to a generous friend unjustly of- 
fended, and had been reconciled to him. 

"And had I abandoned thee, my God?" 
I cried, " and was I prevented? Could I be- 
lieve that the infamous laugh of cynicism was 
suited to my desperate situation ?" 

I uttered these words with inexpressible 
emotion ; I placed the Bible on a chair, and 
knelt down to read it ; and I, who wept with 
so much difficulty, burst into tears. 

These tears were a thousand times more 
sweet than that brutal joy. I began anew to 
know G-od ; I loved him; I repented of having 
outraged him in degrading myself, and pro- 
mised to separate from him no more; no, 
never ! 

Oh,! how a sincere return to religion com- 
forts and elevates the soul ! 

I read and wept more tlftn an hour; and 
rose up, full of confidence that God was with 
me, that he had pardoned all my folly. Then 
my misfortunes, the torments of my trial, the 
impending gibbet, appeared things of little 
importance. I rejoiced to suffer, because in 
suffering with resignation I obeyed the Lord. 

Thanks to Heaven, X knew how to read the 
Bible. The lime was past when I judged it 
with the narrow criticism of Voltaire, deriding 
expressions that are neither ridiculous nor 
false, except when, through real ignorance or 
malice, they are not properly understood. I 
saw clearly how much it is entitled to be 
received as the code of holiness, and, conse- 
quently, of truth ; how anti-philosophical is 
that fastidiousness which takes offence at 
certain imperfections of style, resembling the 
senseless pride of him who despises everything 
that has not an elegant form ; how absurd it 
is to imagine that such a collection of books, 
religiously venerated, had not an authentic 
origin; how undeniable was the superiority 
of the Scriptures to the Koran and the theolo- 
gy of India. 

Many have abused them ; many have wish- 
ed to make of them a code of injustice, a 
sanction of their wicked passions. This is 
true, but still the same reproach. Every thing- 
may be abused ; and when has the abuse of a 
good thing authorized us to say that it is bad 
in itself? 



Jesus Christ has declared, that all the law 
and the prophets, all this collection of sacred 
books, maybe reduced to the precept of loving 
God and men. Must not such writings be 
the truth, adapted to all ages? Must they 
not be the ever-living Word of the Holy 
Spirit? 

These reflections being once awakened in 
me, I resumed my resolution of referring to 
religion all my thoughts upon human affairs, 
all my thoughts upon the progress of civilisa- 
tion, my philanthropy, my love of country — 
in fine, all the affections of my soul. 

The few days I had passed in cynicism had 
strangely corrupted me. I felt the effects of 
it a long time, and had to struggle hard to 
overcome it. Every time that man yields, 
even for a moment, to the temptation of de- 
grading his intellect to regard the works of 
God through the infernal lens of ridicule, to 
cease the beneficial exercise of prayer, the 
havoc which is made in his reason disposes 
him to an easy fall. Almost every day, for 
several weeks, I was violently assailed by 
thoughts of unbelief, and I employed all my 
strength of mind to banish them. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

When these conflicts had ceased, and I \ 
seemed to be newly strengthened in the habit 
of glorifying God in all my desires, I tasted [ 
for sometime a delicious peace. The exami- j 
nations to which the commission subjected j 
me, every two or three days, however painful \ 
they were, no longer plunged me into lasting \ 
disquietude. I took care, in my critical posi- li 
tion, not to fail in my duties of honor and 
friendship, and then said, "Let God do the 
rest." 

I returned to the strict habit of anticipating 
daily all surprise, all emotion, every supposa- 
ble misfortune; and again this exercise became 
interesting to me. 

My solicitude was still further increased. 
The two sons of the jailer, who at first some- 
times kept me company, were sent to school ; 



MY PRISONS. 



29 



and afterwards, remaining little at home, they 
no longer came to see me. The mother and 
sister, who often stopped to talk with me 
when the boys were there, now only came to 
bring my coffee, and left me directly. For 
the mother I felt little regret, because she did 
not manifest a compassionate heart. But the 
daughter, although not handsome, had a cer- 
tain sweetness of look and language, which 
was not without value for me. When she 
brought my coffee, and said, " I made it," I 
; always found it excellent ; when she said, 
" Mamma made it," it was warm water. 
Seeing human beings so rarely, I turned my 
j attention to some ants that came upon my 
i window : I fed them sumptuously; they went 
\ to seek for an army of their companions, and 
my wnndow was soon filled with these little 
I animals. I busied myself also with a beauii- 
« ful spider which spun her web on one of the 
\ walls of my prison. I fed her with gnats and 
; | midges, and she took such a liking to me that 
{ she came upon my bed, into my hands, and 
\ took her prey from my fingers. 

Would to God that these had been the only 
{ insects to visit me ! It was yet spring, and 
I already the midges had multiplied, I can truly 
| say, in a frightful manner. The winter had 



When I had learned from experience the 
severity of this scourge, and could not obtain 
a change of my prison, I was pursued with 
the temptation to commit suicide, and some- 
times feared that I should become crazy. But, 
thanks to Heaven, this fury was not of long 
duration, and religion continued to sustain me. 
It persuaded me that man ought to suffer, and 
suffer with fortitude ; it made me feel a certain 
pleasure in my sufferings, the satisfaction of 
not yielding, but rather of overcoming every- 
thing. 

I said to myself: " The more painful life 
becomes to me, the less terrified I shall be, if, 
young as I am, I shall be condemned to pun- 
ishment; without these preparatory sufferings, 
I should perhaps die like a coward. And be- 
sides, have I such virtues as deserve happi- 
ness? and where are they ?" 

And after a rigorous self-examination, I 
found in my past life but few actions worthy* 
of any praise; all the rest were foolish pas- 
sions, idolatry, a proud and false virtue. 
" Well !" concluded I, " suffer then, unworthy 
man ! If men and insects should destroy you, 
merely through anger, and without .right, 
recognize them as the instruments of Divine 
Justice, and be still." 



been one of extraordinary mildness, and after 
some March winds, the warm weather came. 
It is impossible to say how hot the air became 
in the cell which I occupied. Situated exactly 
to the south, under a roof of lead, my window 
j looking upon that of St. Mark's church, also 
! of lead, from which the reflection was dread- 
! ful, it was suffocating. I never had an idea 
| of heat so overpowering. To this great tor- 
ment w T as added such a multitude of midges, 
that however much I moved about and de- 
stroyed them, I was entirely covered with 
them: the bed, the table, the floor, the chairs, 
the walls, the ceiling, everything, was covered 
with them; and the air contained an infinite 
number, perpetually going and coming through 
the window, with an infernal buzzing. The 
bites of these insects are painful; and to feel 
them from morning to night, and from night 
to morning, and to have to be contriving in- 
cessantly how to diminish their number, is in 
truth too great a suffering for mind and body. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

Has man any need of making an effort to 
humble himself sincerely, and to own himself 
a sinner ? Is it not true that in general we 
waste our youth in vanity, and that instead 
of employing all our powers to advance in 
the career of excellence, we make use of 
them for the most part to degrade ourselves ? 
There are some exceptions; but I confess 
that these do not regard my poor self. I 
have no merit in being dissatisfied with my- 
self. When we see a lamp emitting more 
smoke than flame, it is no great proof of sin- 
cerity to say that it does not burn as it ought. 

Without self-abasement, without the scru- 
ples of the bigot, contemplating myself w r ith 
the utmost calmness of mind, I found myself 



30 



MY PRISONS. 



worthy of the chastisements of God. A 
voice from within told me, "These chastise- 
ments are due for this, if not for that ; let 
them bring ycu back to Him who is perfection 
itself, whom mortals are called upon to 
imitate according to the limits of their 
strength." 

With what reason, then, since I was 
forced to acknowledge myself guilty of a 
thousand infidelities towards God, could I 
complain if some men appeared vile, and 
others unjust ? If the good things of this 
world were ravished from me ? If I was to 
pine away in prison, or perish by a violent 
death ? 

I endeavored to impress deeply on my 
heart these reflections, so just and so much 
felt ; and that done, I saw that it was neces- 
sary to be consistent, and that I could be 
so, only in blessing the just decrees of God, in 
loving them, and in extinguishing within me 
'every wish contrary to them. 

To strengthen myself more in this purpose, 
I resolved from that time forth to make 
a development in writing of all my thoughts 
and feelings. The difficulty was, that the 
commission, while allowing me ink and 
paper, counted the sheets, forbidding me to 
destroy any, and reserving to themselves the 
right of examining what use I made of them. 
To supply the want of paper, I had recourse 
to the innocent artifice of smoothing a rough 
table that I had, with a piece of glass, and on 
this I wrote each day long meditations on 
the duties of men, my own in particular. 

I do not exaggerate when I say that the 
hours thus employed were sometimes deli- 
cious, in spite of the difficulty of breathing 
that I suffered from excessive heat, and the 
painful bites of the midges. To guard 
against these last, I was obliged, notwith- 
standing the heal, to cover my head and 
legs, and to wriie not only with gloves 
on, but with my wrists tied round, to prevent 
their crawling into my sleeves. 

These meditations of mine took a some- 
what biographical form. I wrote the history 
of all the good and evil developed within me 
since my infancy, discussing with myself, 
laboring to solve all my doubts, arranging, as 



well as I was able, all my knowledge, and 
all my ideas upon everything. 

When all the disposable surface of the 
table was covered with writing, I read it 
over again and again, I meditated on my 
own meditations, and at last decided (often 
with regret) to erase the whole with glass, 
in order to have a surface again suitable 
to receive my thoughts. 

In this manner I continued my history, 
often retarded by digressions of all sorts, by 
the analysis of this or that point of meta- 
physics, of morals, of politics, or religion; 
and when all was covered, I began to read 
and read again, and afterwards to efface. 

Wishing to avoid anything that could pre- 
vent my giving a free and faithful account of 
all the facts which I recollected, as well as of 
my opinions, and foreseeing the possibility of 
some inquisitorial visit, I wrote in a sort of 
jargon, that is, with transpositions of letters, 
and abbreviations, to which I was well accus- 
tomed. 

No visit of the sort happened, however, 
and nobody suspected that I spent that most 
gloomy season so agreeably. When I heard 
the jailer or other person open the door, I 
covered the table with a table-cloth and 
placed upon it the inkstand and the legal 
sheets of paper. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Some of my hours were also devoted to this 
paper, sometimes a whole day or night. It 
served me for literary compositions. During 
that time I composed the "Esther d'En- 
gaddi," "Iginia d'Asli" and the four songs 
entitled " Tancreda," "Rosilde," "Eligi and 
Valafrido" and " Adello" besides many out- 
lines of tragedies and other productions, such 
as a poem upon the League of Lombardy, and 
another on Christopher Columbus. 

As the renewal of my paper, when it was 
exhausted, was not always a thing easily 



MY PRISONS. 



31 



and readily obtained, I made the first sketch 
of every composition on the table, or on 
brown paper, in which were wrapped the 
dried figs and other fruits which I sent for. 
Sometimes, giving my dinner to one of the 
secondini, and making him believe that I 
■had no appetite, I induced him to make me a 
present of some sheets of paper. This hap- 
pened only in certain cases, when the table 
was covered with writing, and I could not yet 
resolve to erase it. Then I suffered from 
hunger, and although my money was de- 
posited with the jailer, I asked of him no- 
thing to eat the whole day, partly that he 
might not suspect that I had given away my 
dinner, partly that the secondino might not 
perceive that I had told him a falsehood 
in assuring him that I had no appetite. To 
sustain myself, I took at night very strong 
coffee, and begged that it should be made by 
Siora Zanze. This was the daughter of the 
jailer, who, when she could do it without the 
knowledge of her mother, made it uncom- 
monly strong; so much so, that on account of 
my empty stomach, it caused a kind of 
nervous excitement without pain, which kept 
me awake the whole night. 

In this state of pleasing intoxication, I felt 
my intellectual powers redoubled; I philoso- 
phised, composed poetry and prayed until 
day-break, with surprising enjoyment. Then 
I was seized by a sudden weakness ; I threw 
myself on my bed, and in spite of the insects 
which still succeeded in sucking my blood, 
although I was well wrapped up, I slept for 
an hour or two profoundly. 

Those nights, agitated by strong coffee 
taken upon an empty stomach, and passed in 
such pleasing elevation of mind, appeared too 
delightful to me not to seek to procure them 
often. Thus, even when I had no need of 
the secondino J s paper, I often adopted the 
plan of not touching a mouthful of my dinner 
for the purpose of obtaining at night the 
desired charm of the magic beverage. Hap- 
py when I attained my object!. More than 
once it happened that the coffee was not 
made by the compassionate Zanze; it was 
then but an insipid drink. This disappoint- 
ment put me rather into ill humor. Instead 



of being excited, I felt languid and hungry; I 
gaped, and threw myself on my bed, and 
could not sleep. 

I afterwards complained to Zanze, and she 
pitied me. One day when I was scolding 
her bitterly, as if she had cheated me, the 
poor child began to cry, and said to me, "Sir, 
I never deceived any one, and yet everybody 
accuses me of deceit." 

"Everybody? It appears that I am not 
the only one who gets provoked by such 
drink." 

" That is not what I mean. Ah ! if you 
knew — if I could pour out my poor heart 
to yours !" 

" But do not weep so. What can be the 
matter ? I beg your pardon if I have scolded 
you wrongfully. I fully believe that it is not 
your fault that I had such wretched coffee." 

" Ah ! sir, I am not crying for that." 

My self-love was a little mortified at that, 
but I smiled. 

" You weep, then, when I scold you, but 
for quite another thing ?" 

" Frankly, yes." 

"Who, then, has called you deceitful ?" 

"A lover." 

And her face became covered with blushes. 
In her ingenuous confidence she narrated to 
me a serio-comic tale which affected me. 



CHAPTER XXIX 

After that day I became, I know not why. 
the confidant of this young girl, who began to 
hold long conversations with me. 

She said to me sometimes, "You are so 
good, sir, that I regard you as a daughter 
might regard her father." 

"You make me a poor compliment," I 
replied, repelling her hand ; "lam scarcely 
thirty-two years old, and you already treat 
me as your father!" 

" Well, sir, I will say as a brother." 

And she took my hand by force, and press- 
ed it affectionately ; and all this was very 
innocent. 



32 



MY PRISONS. 



I said to myself afterwards, " It is lucky 
that she is not a beauty ! otherwise these 
innocent familiarities might disconcert me." 

Sometimes also I said, "'It is fortunate 
she is so young ! There will be no danger of 
my falling in love with a girl of her age." 

At other times I felt a little inquietude 
in observing that I had deceived myself in 
thinking her ugly, and was obliged to admit 
that her features and form were not without 
regularity. 

" If she were not so pale," said I, " and 
had not those few freckles on her face, she 
might pass for handsome." 

The truth is, it is impossible not to find 
some charm in the presence, the look and 
the language of a young, lively and affection- 
ate girl. I had done nothing to captivate her 
affections, and yet she loved me as a father, 
or if I preferred, as a brother. "Why ? Be- 
cause she had read my "Fra?icesca da Rimi- 
ni" and " Eufemio" and my verses made 
her weep so much i because, too, I was a 
prisoner, without having been guilty, she 
said, either of robbery or murder. 

In fine, how could I, who had become 
attached to Magdalen without having seen 
her, remain indifferent to the sisterly atten- 
tions, graceful flatteries, and the excellent 
coffee of the Venezianina adolescente sbirra ? 

I should not speak the truth if I attributed 
to my wisdom my not falling in love with 
her. I was not taken with her, simply be- 
cause she had a lover already, of whom she 
was passionately fond. Alas for me if it had 
been otherwise ! 

But if the feeling which she awoke in my 
heart was not exactly what is called love, I 
! acknowledge that it approached somewhat to 
it. It was my desire that she should be 
happy, that she should marry the man she 
loved ; I had not the least jealousy, the 
remotest idea that she could make me the 
object of her love, but when I heard my door 
open, my heart beat with the hope that 
it was Zanze ; if it was not, I was dissat- 
isfied; if it was she, my heart bounded with 

Her parents, who had already conceived a 
i good opinion of me, and who knew that 



she was desperately in love with another, 
had no scruples in letting her come to bring 
my coffee almost always in the morning, and 
sometimes in the evening. 

She had a bewitching simplicity and kind- 
heartedness. She said to me: "I am so 
in love with another, and yet I so gladly stay 
with you ! When I do not see my lover 
I have a feeling of ennui everywhere except 
here." 

" And do you not know why ?" 

" No, indeed." 

" Then I will tell you ; it is because I 
let you talk about your lover." 

" That is very true ; but another reason is, 
I have so much esteem for you." 

Poor girl! she had the charming fault 
of always taking my hand and pressing it, 
and did not perceive that it at the same time 
pleased and troubled me. 

Thanks to Heaven that I am able to recol- 
lect this excellent creature without the least 
remorse ! 



CHAPTER XXX. 

These pages would certainly be more inte- 
resting if Zanze had fallen in love with me, 
or if, at least, I had been taken with her. 
And yet the bond of pure esteem that united 
us, was dearer to me than love. And if 
I feared for a moment in the folly of my 
heart, that this feeling might become chang- 
ed in its character, I was seriously saddened 
by it. 

Once in doubt that this might happen, 
wretched at finding her (I know not by what 
enchantment) a hundred times prettier than 
she appeared at first, surprised at the melan- 
choly which I often felt in her absence, and 
at the joy which her presence again brought 
me, I acted the sullen for two days, imagin- 
ing that she would drop somewhat of her 
familiarity towards me. The expedient 
availed little ; the girl was so patient, so full 
of compassion ! She rested her elbow upon 



MY PRISONS. 



33 



the window, and stood regarding me in 
silence. After some time she said : 

" You appear tired of my company ; yet if 
I could, I would remain here all day, simply 
because I see that you need some amusement. 
This ill humor is the natural effect of solitude. 
But try to talk a little, and the ill humor will 
pass ofT. If you do not wish to chat, I will 
do it myself." 

" Of your lover, eh?" 

" Oh, no ! not always about him : I know 
how to speak of other things, too." 

And she commenced, in fact, to entertain 
me with the little interests of her family, the 
harshness of her mother, the kindness of her 
father, and the wild pranks of her brothers. 
These recitals were full of simplicity and 
grace. But without being aware of it, she 
always fell back upon the beloved theme — her 
unhappy love. 

I did not wish to leave off my sullenness, 
and hoped that she would be offended at it ; 
but either through inattention or art, she did 
not seem to observe it, and at last I was 
forced to resume my serenity, to smile, to be 
affected, and to thank her for her sweet pa- 
tience with me. 

I abandoned the ungrateful thought of 
wishing to offend her, and gradually my 
fears subsided. Certainly I was not in love 
with her. I examined my scruples for a 
long time ; I wrote my reflections on the 
subject, and the exposition of them did me 



Man sometimes frightens himself at scare- 
crows; not to be afraid of them, it is ne- 
cessary to examine them nearer and with 
more attention. 

And what harm was there, if I desired her 
visits with tender anxiety — if I appreciated 
their sweetness — if I rejoiced in her sympa- 
thy — if I returned pity for pity, since our 
thoughts of each other had the purity of the 
purest thoughts of childhood — since her pres- 
sures of the hand and her looks, full of affec- 
tion, while they troubled, rilled me with a 
salutary respect? 

One evening, while pouring into my heart 
a great affliction that she had experienced, 
the unhappy girl threw her arms around my 



neck and covered my face with tears. There 
was not the least profane idea in this em- 
brace. A daughter could not embrace her 
father with more respect. 

The only effect of it was, that my imagina- 
tion was too vividly impressed by it. This 
embrace often recurred to my mind, and then 
I could think of nothing else. 

Another time, when she abandoned herself 
to a similar burst of filial confidence, I hastily 
disengaged myself from her dear arms, with- 
out returning her embrace, and said to her, 
stammering: 

" I beg of you, Zanze, do not embrace me 
so any more, it is not right." 

She fixed her eyes upon my face, cast them 
down, and blushed; certainly it was the first 
time that she read in my soul that I could 
have any weakness towards her. 

Afterwards she did not cease to be familiar 
with me; but- her familiarity became more 
respectful, more conformed to my wishes, and 
I felt grateful to her for it, 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

I cannot speak of evils which afflict other 
men ; as to those which have fallen to my 
lot since my entrance into life, I must ac- 
knowledge that, in examining them closely, I 
have always found them ordered for my 
benefit; yes, even to the horrible heat that 
oppressed me, to those armies of gnats which 
waged so cruel a war ! A thousand times 
have I reflected upon it ; without this inex- 
haustible source of torments, should I have 
found the constant vigilance necessary to 
keep me invulnerable to the darts of a love 
which threatened me. and which I should 
have with difficulty restrained within the 
bounds of respect, with a character so playful 
and affectionate as was that of this young 
girl ? If, sometimes, even then, I so much 
distrusted myself, should I. have been able to 
govern my foolish imagination, in an' atmos- 
phere a little more agreeable, and a little 
more suited to enjoyment ? 



34 



MY PRISONS. 



With the imprudence of the parents of 
Zanze, who had so great a confidence in me ; 
with the imprudence of the girl herself, who 
did not foresee that she could be to me the 
cause of a guilty intoxication ; with the inse- 
curity of my virtue, doubtless the suffocating 
heat of that furnace, and the cruel bites of 
the gnats, were a salutary thing for me. 

This thought somewhat reconciled me with 
those scourges, and then I asked myself: 
" Would you be freed from them, and go into 
a good room cooled by a pure air, on the con- 
dition of seeing this affectionate creature no 
more ?" 

Must I tell the truth ? I had not the cour- 
age to answer that question. 

When we wish well to another, we find 
an indefinable pleasure in things the most 
insignificant in appearance. Often a word from 
Zanze, a smile, a tear, a graceful turn of her 
Venetian dialect, the quickness of her arm in 
defending herself and me from the gnats with 
her handkerchief or fan, all this infused into 
my soul a childish joy, which lasted the 
whole day. Above all, it was sweet to me 
to see that her sorrows subsided while speak- 
ing to me, that my sympathy was dear to 
her, that my counsels persuaded her, and 
that her heart warmed when we spoke of 
virtue and of God. 

" When we have spoken together of re- 
ligion," she remarked to me, " I pray more 
willingly, and with a more lively faith." 

Sometimes, cutting short a frivolous con- 
versation, she took the Bible, opened it, and, 
kissing a verse at random, begged me to 
translate and explain it to her, then she said: 
"I should like that each time you read that 
verse, you would recollect that I have im- 
printed upon it a kiss." 

These kisses, in truth, did not always fall 
happily, particularly t§ she happened to open 
the Song of Songs. Then, not to make her 
blush, I took advantage of her ignorance of 
Latin, and made use of phrases with which 
I could at the same time preserve her inno- 
cence and the sacredness of the book, two 
things that inspired me with the greatest 
veneration. In such cases I never allowed 
myself to smile. It was, nevertheless, not a 



small embarrassment to me, when, some- 
times, not having well understood my false 
version, she begged me to translate the verse 
word for word, and did not let me pass quickly 
to another subject. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

Nothing is lasting here below. Zanze fell 
sick. During the first days of her illness she 
came to see. me, complaining of severe pains 
in her head. She wept, and would riot tell 
me the cause of her tears. She only mut- 
tered some complaints against her lover. 
" Pie is a villain," she said, " but may God 
forgive him !" 

However urgently I begged her to unbur- 
then her heart to me, as she was accustomed 
to do, I could not find out what so much dis- 
tressed her. 

"I will come back to-morrow morning," 
said she, one evening. 

But the next day, my coffee was brought 
by her mother ; on other days, by the secon- 
dini. .Zanze was seriously ill. 

The secondini brought me equivocal re- 
ports concerning the love of the girl, which 
made my hair stand on end. A seduction ! — 
But perhaps that was a calumny. I confess 
that I gave them credit, and was much af- 
flicted at so great a misfortune. I like, how- 
ever, to hope they were false. After more 
than a month of sickness, the poor thing was 
taken to the country, and I saw her no more. 

I cannot express how much I mourned her 
loss. Oh ! how much more horrible did my 
solitude become ! A hundred times more 
bitter to me than her absence, was the 
thought of this good creature's unhappiness ! 
Her sweet compassion had so often consoled 
me in my miseries, and now mine was una- 
vailing for her. But, certainly, she knew 
that I would weep for her, that I would have 
made every sacrifice to procure for her, if it 
had been possible, some consolation; that I 
would never cease to bless her and to offer up 
prayers for her happiness. 



MY PRTSONS. 



35 



While Zanze remained, her visits, though 
always too short, diversifying agreeably the 
monotony of my perpetual meditations and 
silent studies, interweaving other ideas with 
my own, and stirring up sweet affections 
within me, really embellished my adversity 
and doubled my existence. 

After her departure, my prison again be- 
came a tomb to me. For many days I was 
oppressed with sadness to such a degree, that 
I found no pleasure even in writing. 

My sadness, however, was calm in com- 
parison to the furies that I had before expe- 
rienced. Did this indicate that I had become 
more familiarized with misfortune, more of 
a philosopher, more a Christian ? or only that 
the suffocating heat of my room had had the 
effect of destroying the force of my sorrow ? 
Oh, no ! I remember feeling it powerfully in 
the bottom of my soul, and the more power- 
fully, perhaps, that I would not give vent to 
it in cries and agitation. 

Certainly, this long apprenticeship had 
already made me more capable of enduring 
new afflictions, by resigning myself to the 
will of God. I had said to myself so many 
times, " It is cowardice to complain," that I 
had at length learned how to restrain my 
complaints, ready to burst forth, and was even 
ashamed that they had been so near my lips. 

The habit of writing my thoughts had con- 
tributed to fortify my mind, to disabuse me 
of vanities, and to reduce most of my reason- 
ing to these conclusions : 

"There is a God: therefore an infallible 
justice: then, everything that happens is 
ordered for the best ; therefore the sufferings 
of man on earth are for the good of man." 

My acquaintance with Zanze had been a 
benefit to me ; she had softened my disposi- 
tion. Her sweet approbation had incited me 
not to falsify, for several months, the duty 
which I considered incumbent upon every 
man, to be superior to fortune, and conse- 
quently patient. And -these months of con- 
stancy had habituated me to resignation. 

Zanze saw me fall into a passion but twice. 
The first was on the occasion of the bad 
coffee, of which I have already spoken ; the 
second was under the following circumstances: 



Every two or three weeks, the jailer brought 
a letter from my family. This letter, passing 
first through the hands of the commission, 
came to«me horribly mutilated by erasures 
made by the blackest ink. It happened, one 
day, that instead of erasing a few phrases 
only, they had drawn a horrible line over the 
entire letter, with the exception of these 
words : " My dear Silvio,"" which were at the 
beginning of the letter, and the closing salu- 
tation : "We embrace you with all our hearts." 

This threw me into such a rage, that even 
in the presence of Zanze I burst out into 
violent cries, and cursed I know not whom. 
The poor child commiserated my grief, but at 
the same time reproached me with inconsist- 
ency in respect of my principles. I saw that 
she was right and cursed no more. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

One of the secondini came into my room 
one day, and with an air of mystery, said to 
me: 

" When Siora Zanze was here ... as it 
was she who brought the coffee . . . and 
stopped a long time to talk ... I was afraid 
the little rogue would discover all your se- 
crets, sir . . . " 

u She never discovered a single one," said 
I, in anger; " and if I had had any, I should 
not have been so simple as to let them be 
drawn out of me. Continue." 

"■ Pardon, sir, I did not say that you were 
simple, but I did not put much confidence in 
Siora Zanze myself, and now that you have 
nobody to hold you company ... I trust . . . 
that ..." 
" What ? explain yourself at once." 
" But first swear not to betray me," 
" Oh ! to swear not to betray you, I can do 
that ; I never betrayed anybody." 
" Then you swear it truly, eh ?" 
"Yes, I swear not to betray you. But 
know, dunce that you are, that a man capable 
of betraying you, will also be capable of vio- 
lating an oath." 



36 



MY PRISONS. 



Then, drawing a letter from his pocket, he 
gave it to me, trembling and conjuring me to 
destroy it as soon as I had read it. 

"Stop a moment," said I. opening the 
letter ; " when I have read it, I will destroy 
it in your presence." 

" But it will be necessary to answer it, sir, 
and I cannot wait. Do it at your leisure; 
only let us make this agreement. When you 
hear any one coming, mark well: if it is I, I 
will always hum the air, ' Sognai, mi gera 
un goto.* Then you have no surprise to fear, 
and you can have any papers whatever in 
your pocket. But if you do not hear that 
tune, it will be a sign either that it is not I, 
or that I have some one with me. In such a 
case, take care not to have any papers con- 
cealed, for they might make a search ; but if 
you have any, be sure to tear them up, and 
throw them out of the window." 

"Never fear: I see that you are prudent, 
and I will be so too." 

" And yet you called me a fool." 

"You do right to reproach me with it," 
said I, pressing his hand. " Pardon me." 

He went away, and I read : 

" I am (here was the writer's name) one of 
your admirers. I know all your Francesco, da 
Rimini by heart. I was arrested for (and here 
he gave the date and cause of his arrest), and I 
would give I know not how many pounds of my 
blood, to have the happiness of being with you, 
or at least of having a prison adjoining yours, so 
that we might converse together. Ever since I 
heard from Tremerello (so we will call our confi- 
dant) that you were arrested, and for what cause, 
I have burned with the desire of telling you that 
no one compassionates your misfortunes more 
than I, that no one loves you more. Will you be 
good enough to accept the following proposition, 
viz. : that we should mutually alleviate the 
weight of our solitude by a written correspond- 
ence ? I promise you as a man of honor, that 
no living soul shall ever know of it from me, 
persuaded that if you accept it, I may expect the 
same secrecy from you. Meanwhile, that you 
may know something about me, I will give you a 
sketch of my life," &c. 

Here followed the sketch. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 



Evert reader with a moderate share of 
imagination, will easily comprehend the elec- 
trical effect of such a letter on a poor pri- 
soner, especially on one of a character far 
from savage, and of an affectionate heart. 
My first feeling was to become attached to 
this unknown individual, to pity his misfor- 
tunes, to be grateful for the good-will that he 
manifested to me. Yes, 1 exclaimed, I ac- 
cept thy proposition, generous man ! Would 
that my letters could bring thee a consolation 
equal to that which thine are about to give 
me ; to what thy first has given already ! 

I perused and re-perused this letter with a 
childish joy, and blessed a hundred times the 
hand that wrote it; each of his expressions 
seemed to reveal a pure and noble soul 

It was sunset ; my hour of prayer. Oh, 
what perceptions I had of God ! How I 
thanked Him for always finding some new 
means to prevent the powers of my mind and 
heart from languishing! How much the 
memory of all His precious gifts revived in 
me ! 

I was standing at my window with my 
arms passed between the bars and my hands 
clasped ; below me was the Church of St. 
Mark; and a multitude of wild pigeons were 
caressing each other, flitting about, and mak- 
ing their nests upon its leaden roof. The 
most magnificent heavens spread out before 
me : I overlooked all that part of Venice 
which was visible from my prison ; a far-off 
murmur of human voices struck sweetly upon 
my ear. In that sad but imposing place I 
communed with Him whose eyes alone be- 
held me. I commended to Him my father, 
my mother, and, one after the other, 'every- 
body that was dear to me; and He seemed 
to return me this answer: "Trust in my 
goodness !" and I exclaimed, " In thy good- 
ness I put my trust!" And I finished my 
prayer moved and comforted, and regardless 
of the bites which the gnats had joyously 
given me in the meantime. 

This evening, as my imagination began to 
grow calm after so great an exaltation ; as the 
insects became insupportable, and I felt the 



MY PRISONS. 



37 



necessity of covering my face and hands, a 
vile and malicious thought came into my 
head and made me shudder. I tried to shake 
it off, but in vain. 

Tremerello had hinted an infamous suspi- 
cion in respect to Zanze ; that she had been 
there for the purpose of spying out my se- 
crets. She ! that candid soul ! who knew 
not a word of politics, nor desired to know. 

To doubt her was impossible, but I asked 
myself: "Am I equally certain of Treme- 
rello? If this knave were the instrument of 
some villainous plot ? . . . If this letter were 
a fabrication, by I know not whom, to induce 
me to make important disclosures to a new 
friend ? . . . Perhaps this pretended prisoner 
who writes to me, does not even exist ; . . . 
perhaps he exists, and is a traitor, who is try- 
ing to get possession of the secrets of another 
to purchase his own safety by revealing them 
. . . perhaps he is a man of honor ; well, 
but then the traitor is Tremerello, who is 
trying to ruin both of us, to obtain an addition 
to his salary." 

Oh ! frightful thing, but too natural for one 
who groans in prison, to dread hatred and 
knavery from all quarters. 

These doubts tormented and discouraged 
me. No, with respect to Zanze, I could never 
entertain them for a moment. Nevertheless, 
since Tremerello dropped that word in rela- 
tion to her, I was tortured by half a doubt, 
not of her, but of those who let her come 
into my room. Had they from their own 
zeal or by the order of a superior, imposed on 
her the duty of a spy ? Ah ! if it were, how 
badly were they served ! 

But what was I to do with the letter of 
the unknown ? Follow the severe and narrow 
counsels of that fear which bears the name 
of prudence ? Give back the letter to Tre- 
merello, and say to him, " I do not wish to 
risk my tranquillity?" . . . And what if there 
was no snare ? If the unknown was a man 
most worthy of my friendship, most worthy 
that I should risk something to soften 
the anguish of solitude ? Coward ! You 
stand perhaps not two steps from the scaffold, 
the fatal sentence may be pronounced at any 
day, and would you refuse to do a last act of 



love ? I must ... I must reply ! . . . But 
if, unhappily, this correspondence should be 
discovered, although no one, in conscience, can 
make a crime of it, will not a dreadful pun- 
ishment fall, nevertheless, upon poor Treme- 
rello ? Is not this consideration sufficient to 
impose it upon me as' a duty to decline any' 
clandestine correspondence? . . . 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

I was agitated all the evening, and did not 
shut my eyes during the night; in the midst 
of so many uncertainties I knew not what to 
decide. 

At day-break I leaped from my bed, sprang 
to the window, and prayed. In cases of dif- 
ficulty, it is needful to ask the guidance of 
God with confidence, to listen to His inspira- 
tions, and follow them. 

I did so ; and after a long prayer, I descend- 
ed, brushed off the gnats, passed my hands 
softly over my cheeks covered with bites, and 
my resolution was taken : to make known to 
Tremerello my apprehension that the corre- 
spondence might turn against him ; renounce 
it, if he hesitated, and accept it, if this fear 
did not deter him. 

I walked until I heard some one humming 
the tune, Sognai, <SfC. Tremerello was bring- 
ing my coffee. 

I told him my scruples and spared nothing 
to arouse his fear. I found him firm in the 
wish to serve, as he said, two signors so ac- 
complished. This was quite a contrast with 
his rabbit face, and the name of Tremerello, 
which we gave him. Well ! I also remained 
firm. 

" I will leave you my wine," said I ; " fur- 
nish me the paper necessary for this correspond- 
ence, and be sure that if I hear the noise of 
keys without your song, I will instantly de- 
stroy every illegal article." 

" Here is a sheet of paper now ; I will 
always give you as many as you want, and 
trust entirely to your prudence." 



38 



MY PRISONS. 



I burned my mouth in swallowing my cof- 
fee too hastily. Tremerello went away, and 
I sat down to write. 

Did I do right ? and was the resolution that 
I had taken truly an inspiration of God ? 
Was it not rather a triumph of my natural 
intrepidity, which leads me to prefer what 
pleases me, at painful sacrifices ? — a proud 
complaisance, excited by the esteem that the 
unknown manifested for me, mingled with 
the fear of appearing pusillanimous, if I 
should prefer a prudent silence to a somewhat 
perilous correspondence ? 

How was I to resolve these doubts ? I 
imparted them with candor to my companion 
in captivity, in my answer to him ; adding, 
nevertheless, that in my opinion, when any 
one thinks he acts from good motives, and 
without manifest repugnance of conscience, 
he should not be afraid of committing a fault; 
that he should likewise reflect with all seri- 
ousness upon what we were about to under- 
take, and tell me frankly what reasons he 
had either for confidence or apprehension in 
coming to his determination ; that if, upon 
second thought, he judged the attempt too 
rash, we ought to forego the consolation pro- 
mised us by this correspondence, and content 
ourselves with having become known to each 
other by this interchange of a few words, the 
indelible tokens of an elevated friendship. 

I wrote four pages glowing with the most 
sincere affection. I told him briefly the 
cause of my imprisonment ; I spoke with an 
outpouring of heart, of my family, and of 
some other intimate friends, and I endeavored 
to lay open to him the very depths of my 
soul. 

My letter was conveyed in the evening. 
Not having slept the preceding night, I was 
very much fatigued ; sleep did not wait to be 
invoked, and the next morning, I awoke re- 
freshed, cheerful and palpitating at the sweet 
thought of receiving, perhaps in a moment, 
the reply of my friend. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

The reply came with my c^ee. I threw 
myself on the neck of Tremerello, and said 
to him with tenderness: "God reward you 
for such an act of charity !" My suspicions 
in regard to him, as well as the unknown, 
had vanished, lean hardly tell why ; because 
they were odious to me ; because, having the 
prudence never to speak inconsiderately of 
politics, they appeared useless; because, 
though an admirer of the genius of Tacitus, 
I have, nevertheless, very little faith in the 
justice of those' precepts of his that lead us 
to see everything in black. 

Julian (so my correspondent signed him- 
self), commenced his letter with a courteous 
preamble, declaring himself free from appre- 
hension in relation to the projected correspond- 
ence. Then he rallied me on my hesitation, 
cautiously at first, yet afterwards with some- 
thing of sharpness. At length, after an elo- 
quent eulogium on frankness, he begged I 
would pardon him if he could not conceal 
from me the dissatisfaction which he had felt 
in observing in me a certain scrupulous hesi- 
tation, a certain Christian refinement of con- 
science which could not he reconciled with 
sound 'philosophy. 

" I shall always esteem you," he added, 
" even if we should not agree on this point, 
but the sincerity I profess, obliges me to tell 
you that I am of no religion ; that I abhor all ; 
that I take, /row modesty, the name of Julian, 
because that good emperor was the enemy of 
Christians, though, in reality, I go much 
further than he. The crowned Julian believ- 
ed in a God, and had certain bigotries pecu- 
liar to himself. For my part I have none ; 
I do not believe in God ; to me, all virtue con- 
sists in truth, and those who seek for it, and in 
hating whatever displeases me." 

And, continuing in this manner, he offered 
reasons for nothing; he inveighed right and 
left against Christianity ; praised, with a pom- 
pous energy, the superiority of virtue without 
religion ; and then, in a style half serious half 
jesting, he launched into a eulogy of the em- 
peror Julian, on account of his apostacy and 
his philanthropic efforts to eradicate all traces 
of the Gospel from the earth. 



MY PRISONS. 



39 



Fearing then, lest he had too rudely attack- 
ed my opinions, he again asked ray pardon, 
and declaimed against the so frequent want 
of sincerity. He repeated his extreme desire 
of keeping up an intercourse with me, and 
closed with the usual salutation. In a post- 
script he added: "I have no scruples but that 
of not being sufficiently frank. I cannot con- 
ceal from you that I suspect the Christian 
language which you hold to me is feigned. I 
hope it sincerely. In that case, throw aside 
the mask ; I have given you the example." 

I know not how to express the strange ef- 
fect which this letter produced upon me. 
While reading the first lines, my heart palpi- 
tated like that of a lover; then a hand of ice 
seemed to' grasp it. That sarcasm about the 
tenderness of my conscience offended me. I 
repented having entered into communication 
with such a man; I, who have so much con- 
tempt for cynicism, who believe it the most 
anti-philosophical and degrading of all ten- 
dencies ; who am so little imposed on by ar- 
rogance ! 

When I had read the last word, I took the 
letter between the thumb and finger of one 
hand and the thumb and finger of the other, 
and raising the left hand, I brought the right 
one rapidiy down, in such a manner, that each 
remained in possession of half the letter. 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

I looked at the two pieces and meditated 
for a moment upon the inconstancy of human 
things and the falsity of their appearances. A 
moment ago, so ardent a desire for this letter, 
and now I tear it with indignation ! A mo- 
ment ago, so sweet a presentiment of a new 
friendship with this companion in misfortune, 
such a perfect persuasion of mutual consola- 
tion to be derived from it, such a disposition 
to bestow upon him my warmest affections, 
and now, I call him insolent ! 

I put the two pieces one upon the other, 
and placing them again as at first, between 



the thumb and finger of one hand and the 
thumb and finger of the other, I proceeded to 
raise the left hand and bring the right rapidly 
down. 

I was going to repeat the same operation, 
when one of the four pieces fell from my hand ; 
I stooped to pick it up, and during the short 
time of stooping down and rising up, I chang- 
ed my purpose and conceived the desire of 
reading again this arrogant letter. 

I sat down and fitted together the four 
pieces upon my bible, and read them the 
second time. Leaving them in that state, I 
walked my room, and then read them over 
again, making. in the meanwhile these reflec- 
tions : 

If I make him no reply, he will Relieve 
that I am annihilated and confounded, that"! 
dare not appear again in the presence of such 
a Hercules. Let us answer him, and make 
,him see that we do not fear to confront our 
doctrines with his own ; let us show him, in 
a proper manner, that it was no cowardice to 
mature our counsels, to hesitate when a dan- 
gerous step was in contemplation, and more 
dangerous for others than ourselves. Let him 
learn that true courage consists not in sport- 
ing with conscience ; that true dignity dwells 
not in pride. Let us demonstrate to him the 
reasonableness of Christianity, and the power- 
less logic of incredulity. Besides, if this 
Julian manifests opinions so opposite to mine, 
if he does not spare pungent sarcasms, if he 
takes so little pains to captivate my affections, 
is it not a proof, at least, that he is not a spy ? 
And still, could it not be a refinement of art 
to apply the lash rudely upon my self-love ? — 
Yet no, I cannot believe it. I am malicious, 
because, feeling offended at his bold jests, I 
would like to persuade myself that he who 
launched them must be the vilest of men. 
Base malignity, that I have so many times 
condemned in others, depart from my heart ! 
No, Julian is what he is, and nothing more; 
insolent, but not a spy. . . And have I indeed 
the right to give the name of insolence to what 
he calls frankness, . . Behold thy humility, 
O hypocrite ! It is sufficient that any person, 
by an error of judgment, maintains false 
opinions and turns thy faith into ridicule; at 



40 



MY PRISONS. 



once thou arrogatest ihe right of abusing 
him. God knows if that fierce humility and 
malevolent zeal in the heart of a Christian 
are not worse than the bold frankness of this 
unbeliever! . . Perhaps he needs but a single 
r ay of grace to turn this energetic love cf 
truth into a piety more solid than my own. . . 
Had I not better pray for him than to get 
angry and think myself better than he ? . . . 
Who knows if, while I was furiously tearing 
his letter, he was not reading over mine with 
a mild benevolence ; if ha did not reckon upon 
my goodness, in believing me incapable of 
being offended at the freedom of his lan- 
guage ! . . . Who is the most guilty, one 
who loves and says: " I am not a Christian," 
or one who says; "I am a Christian," and 
does not love? . . . It is difficult to know a 
man well, even after living with him long 
years, and would I judge him from a single 
letter ? Among so many chances, may it not 
be possible, that this man, without acknow- 
ledging it to himself, is not quite at peace in 
his atheism, and for that reason he provokes 
me to the combat, in the secret hope of being 
forced to yield ? Oh ! if it were so ; ! great 
God i in whose hands the most unworthy in- 
strument can become powerful, choose me, 
choose me for this work ! Dictate to me such 
powerful and holy arguments as may convince 
this unfortunate man, as may lead him to 
bless thee, and teach him that, away from 
thee, there is no virtue which is not a contra- 
diction. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. . 

I tore into smaller fragments the four parts 
of the letter, but without any feeling of anger ; 
I went to the window, extended my hand, 
and stayed to watch the fate of the little bits 
of paper thus given to the wind. Some 
lodged upon the leads of the church, others 
gyrated a long time in the air and fell to the 
ground. I saw them dispersed in such a 
manner that there was no danger that any 



one could re-unite them and penetrate the 
mystery. 

I wrote afterwards to Julian, and took es- 
pecial care neither to be, nor to appear, of- 
fended. 

I rallied him upon his fear that I should 
carry my tenderness of conscience to a de- 
gree incompatible with philosophy, and beg- 
ged that, in that respect at least, he would 
suspend his judgment. I applauded the pro- 
fession of candor that he made, I assured 
him that he would find me equal to himself in 
that respect, and added, that to give him a proof 
of it, I appointed myself the champion of 
Christianity ; " well persuaded," said I, " that 
if I am always ready to listen amicably to 
your opinions, you will have the liberality to 
hear mine in patience. 

This defence, I purposed to make little by 
little, and in the meanwhile commenced it by 
a faithful analysis of the essence of Christi- 
anity : — The worship of God stripped of su- 
perstition, brotherly love between men, a 
constant aspiration after virtue, humility 
without abjectness, dignity without pride; for 
a model a God-man ! What more philosophic 
and more grand ? 

I then designed to demonstrate how so 
great wisdom was more or less feebly mani- 
fested to those who, with the light of reason, 
sought after truth, but had never been univer- 
sally diffused ; how, at the coming of our 
Divine Master upon earth, it gave a striking 
testimony of itself, by means, humanly 
speaking, the most feeble. What the great- 
est philosophers could not effect — the over- 
throw of idolatry and the general teaching of 
brotherly love — a few untaught messengers 
accomplished. Then the emancipation of 
slaves became more frequent, and finally, there 
appeared a civilisation without slaves ; a state 
of society which the ancient philosophers be- 
lieved impossible. 

A review of the history of the world since 
Jesus Christ, was to show how the religion 
founded by him w 7 as always found adapted to 
all possible grades cf civilisation. It was 
false, therefore, that, civilisation continuing to 
advance, the Gospel would not be in harmo- 
ny with it. 



MY PRISONS. 



41 



I wrote in very small characters, and at 
considerable length. I could not, however, 
proceed very far, because my paper failed me. 
I read and reviewed my introduction, and it 
seemed to me well done. There was not a 
single phrase indicative of resentment for the 
sarcasms of Julian, whilst expressions of good- 
will abounded in it; my heart, now fully 
brought back to toleration, had dictated them. 

I sent the letter, and the following morning 
I awaited the response with anxiety. 

Tremerello came and said : 

" The gentleman was not able to write, 
but he prays you to continue your plea- 
santry." 

' : Pleasantry !" I exclaimed. " He could not 
have said pleasantry ! you must have misun- 
derstood him." 

Tremerello shrugged up his shoulders : " I 
must have misunderstood him !" 

" What ! you really believe he said plea- 
santry '?" 

" As much as I believe that I hear this 
moment the bell of St. Mark." (It was then 
ringing.) I drank my coffee in silence. 

" But tell me, had the gentleman read the 
whole of my letter ?" 

" I imagine so ; because he laughed, 
laughed like a fool, and made of the letter a 
ball which he tossed into the air, and when I 
told him not to forget to destroy it, he destroy- 
ed it at once." 

"Very well." 

I returned my coffee-cup to Tremerello, 
telling him that it was plain the coffee had 
been made by Siora Bettina. 

"Did you find it bad, sir?" 

" Detestable." 

" Yet I made it myself, and can assure 
you that I made it strong and there were no 
dregs in the bottom." 

" I have perhaps a bad month." 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

I walked and scolded the whole morning. 
" What sort of man is this Julian ? Why 
call my letter a pleasantry ? Why laugh and 



play ball with it ? Why not even a single 
line of answer % That is the way with all 
infidels ! Feeling the weakness of their doc- 
trines if any one takes the trouble to confront 
them, they do not listen, they laugh, they 
affect a superiority of understanding that has 
no need to examine anything. The wretch- 
es ! And when has there ever been a philo- 
sophy without investigation, without serious- 
ness ? If it is true that Democritus was 
always laughing, he was a buffoon. But I 
deserve it; why undertake this correspond- 
ence ? That I deceived myself for a moment 
was excusable ; but when I saw that he was 
becoming insolent, was I not a fool to write 
to him again ? 

I was resolved to write to him no more. At 
dinner, Tremerello took my wine, poured it 
into a flask, and putting it into his pocket, 
"Oh! I recollect," said he, "I have some 
paper here for you." And he gave it to me. 

He departed, while I, fixing my eyes on the 
blank paper, felt the temptation to write to 
Julian for the last time, and take leave of him 
with a good lesson upon the meanness of 
insolence. 

" Excellent temptation !" said I afterwards, 
" to render him scorn for scorn ! to make him 
hate Christianity still more, by showing him 
that I, a Christian, am full of pride and intol- 
erance ! No, it must not be ; we must cease 
this correspondence altogether. But if I 
stop so abruptly, will he not equally say that 
I did so from pride and intolerance ? I must 
write to him once mo»e, and without bitter- 
ness. But if I can write without bitterness, 
will it not be better to appear ignorant of his 
sarcasms and the name of pleasantry which 
he has bestowed on my letter ? Will it not 
be better to continue in candor my apology of 
Christianity ? I reflected a little, and at 
length fixed upon this course. 

In the evening I sent my packet, and on 
the following morning received a few lines of 
thanks, extremely cold, without any biting 
expressions, but also without the least sign of 
approbation, or of invitation to continue. 

This billet displeased me, nevertheless I 
resolved to proceed. 

My thesis could not be briefly discussed ; I 



42 



MY PRISONS. 



made it the subject of five or six long letters, 
to each of which he returned me a laconic 
answer of thanks accompanied with some 
declamations foreign to the question ; some- 
times imprecating his enemies, sometimes 
laughing at his own imprecations, saying that 
it was natural for the strong to oppress the 
weak, that he regretted but one thing, that he 
was not one of the strong; at other times he 
confided to me his loves, and the empire 
which they exercised upon his tortured ima- 
gination. 

Nevertheless, at my last letter upon Chris- 
tianity, he said that he was preparing a long 
answer. I waited more than a week, and 
during that time, he entertained me each day 
with other matters, generally obscene sub- 
jects. I begged him to recollect the answer 
he owed me, and recommended to him to 
apply his mind to weigh alternately all the 
reasons I had given him. 

He answered me somewhat angrily, lavish- 
ing upon himself the titles of philosopher, a 
man settled in his principles, a man who had 
no need of reflecting so much to comprehend 
that glow-worms are not lanterns ; and began 
again to speak merrily of some scandalous 
adventures. 



CHAPTER XL. 

I bore it with patience, that I might not 
draw upon myself the epithets of bigot and 
intolerant, and because I did not despair that 
after this fever of erratic buffooneries, there 
would come a period of reflection. In the 
meanwhile, I did not hide from him how 
much I disapproved of his disrespect for 
women, his profane manner of treating love ; 
and I pitied the unfortunate creatures that he 
said had been his victims. 

He pretended to give little credit to my 
disapprobation, and repeated ; " Though you 
talk about immorality, I am certain that you 
are amused by my recitals; all men love 
pleasure as well as myself, but they have not 



the frankness to acknowledge it openly. I 
will speak of it so much that I shall enchant 
you, and you will feel obliged, in conscience, 
to applaud me." 

But from week to week he ceased not these 
infamous stories, and I, ever hoping at each 
letter to find a different subject, and allowing 
myself to be led on by curiosity, read all ; and 
my mind, without being already corrupted, 
remained at least disturbed, and remote from 
noble and holy thoughts. The conversation 
of degraded men produces degradation, unless 
a man has virtue far above ordinary ; far above 
mine. 

"Behold yourself punished for your pre- 
sumption !" said I to myself. " See what is 
gained by wishing to act the missionary 
without his sacred character!" 

One day, I decided to write to him these 
words; "I have forced myself hitherto to 
call your attention to other subjects, and you 
always send me back stories which, I have 
frankly told you, were disagreeable to me. 
If it suits you to speak of more worthy things 
we will continue our correspondence; other- 
wise, let us shake hands and each one keep 
to himself." 

I was two days without an answer, and at 
first was glad of it. " O blessed solitude !" 
I exclaimed, " how much less bitter art thou 
than a conversation discordant and degrading ! 
Instead of torturing myself with reading in- 
decent recitals, instead of fatiguing myself to 
no purpose by opposing to them the expres- 
sion of sentiments which honor humanity, I 
will resume my conversation with God, with 
the dear remembrance of my family and my 
true friends. I will recommence the reading 
of the Bible more attentively, the writing of 
my thoughts on the table, in order to study 
the depths of my heart and try to improve it; 
and the tasting of the sweets of an innocent 
melancholy a thousand times preferable to 
the images of mirth and impiety." 

Every time that Tremerello entered my 
prison, he said : " No answer yet." 

"Very well," I replied. 

The third day, he said: "Mr. N. N. is 
rather unwell." 

"What is the matter?" 



MY PRISONS. 



43 



" He does not say, but is always stretched 
upon his bed ; he neither eats nor drinks, and 
is in a bad humor." 

I was affected at the thought that he was 
suffering and had nobody to console him. 

From my lips, or rather from my heart, 
escaped these words ; " I will write him two 
lines." 

" I will carry them this evening," said 
Tremerello ; and he retired. 

I was somewhat embarrassed on sitting 
down to my table. Am I doing right to re- 
new this correspondence ? Did I not just now 
bless my solitude as a newly found treasure ? 
What fickleness, then, is mine ! And yet the 
unfortunate man neither eats nor drinks; 
surely he is sick. Is this the moment to for- 
sake him ? My last note was bitter ; it may 
have contributed to afflict him. Perhaps, in 
spite of our different ways of seeing, he 
would never have broken off our friendship. 
My billet may have seemed to him more 
ill-natured than it was ; he may have taken 
it for a rupture absolute'and contemptuous. 



CHAPTER XLI. 

I wrote a note in these terms : 

"I learn that you are not well, and am 
much grieved at it. I should like to be near 
you with all my heart, to be able to perform 
for you all the offices of friendship. I hope 
your indisposition has been the only cause of 
your silence during the last three days. Could 
you have been offended at my note the other 
day ? I wrote it, I assure you, without the 
least ill-will, and with the single design of 
leading you to more serious subjects of con- 
versation. If you are not in a condition to 
write, send me only precise news of your 
health : I will write you each day some little 
thing to divert you and remind you that I 
wish you well." - 

Never could I have expected the answer 
which he returned to me. It commenced 
thus : " I withdraw from you my friendship ; 
if you have no occasion for mine, I have none 



for yours. I am not a man to pardon offen- 
ces ; when once rejected, I am not a man to 
be reconciled. Because you know that I am 
sick, you make hypocritical advances to me, 
in the hope that my sickness, by enfeebling 
my understanding, may dispose me to listen 
to your preaching." He continued in the 
same tone, abusing me with violence, ridi- 
culing me, caricaturing all that I had said 
upon religion and morality, declaring his de- 
termination to live and die always the same ; 
that is, in the greatest hatred and the most 
utter contempt of all philosophy differing 
from his own. 

I remained stupefied. 

" Pretty conversions I make," said I, with 
grief, and shuddering. " God is witness of 
the purity of my intentions ! — No, I have not 
merited these taunts ! — Well, patience ; it is 
one disenchantment more. Let such a fellow 
alone, if he fancies offences to himself, to 
have the pleasure of not pardoning them. I 
am not obliged to do more than I have done." 

However, after some days, my indignation 
subsided, and I thought that this mad letter 
might have been the fruit of a transient ex- 
citement. " Perhaps he is already ashamed 
of it," said I, " but is too proud to acknow- 
ledge his fault. Will it not be a generous act, 
now that he has had time to become calm, to 
write to him again ?" 

It cost me much to make such a sacrifice 
of self-love, but I made it. He who humbles 
himself without a base object, does not de- 
grade himself, whatever unjust scorn may 
ensue. 

I received in reply a letter less violent, but 
not less insulting. The implacable man said 
he admired my evangelical moderation. 

" Let us then," he proceeded, " resume our 
correspondence ; but let us speak out clearly. 
We do not like each other. We will write, 
each for his own amusement, casting freely 
upon paper all that comes into our heads ; 
you, your seraphic imaginations, and I, my 
blasphemies; you, your ecstacies upon the 
dignity of man and woman ; I, the ingenuous 
narrative of my profanations; I, hoping to 
convert you, and you, to convert me. Answer 
me if this compact pleases you." 



44 



MY PRISONS. 



I replied ; " What you propose is not a 
compact, but a mockery. I felt an abundance 
of good-will for you. Conscience obliges me 
no further, than to wish you all happiness in 
this life and the next." 

Thus ended my secret correspondence with 
this man — who knows, less wicked, perhaps, 
than soured by misfortune, and exasperated 
by despair ? 



CHAPTER XLII. 

Once more I sincerely blessed my solitude, 
and for some time again my days passed by 
without incident. 

Summer was ended ; and in the latter part 
of September the heat diminished. October 
came; and then I was glad that I had a 
room which in winter would be a good one. 
But lo ! one morning the jailer told me he 
had orders to change my prison. 

" Where do I go ?" 

" A few steps, into a cooler chamber." 

" And why not think of that when I was 
dying of heat, when the air was alive with 
insects, and my bed rilled with bugs ?" 

" The order did not come before." 

" Patience ! Come on." 

Although I had suffered much in this pris- 
on, it gave me pain to leave it, not only be- 
cause it must necessarily be excellent in the 
cold season, but for many other reasons. 
There were those ants that I loved and nour- 
ished with, I might almost say, paternal care, 
if the expression were not ridiculous. A few 
days before, the dear spider, of which I have 
already spoken, had emigrated, I know not 
why; but I said to myself, "Who knows 
whether she will not remember me and re- 
turn ? And now that I am leaving it, if she 
returns, she will find the room empty, or if 
she finds a new inmate, he will be, perhaps, 
an enemy of spiders, and with his slipper will 
brush away this beautiful web, and crush the 
poor animal. Besides, has not this gloomy 
prison been embellished by the pity of Zanze ? 



Upon this window she so often leaned and 
generously let fall crumbs of bread for my 
ants. There, she was accustomed to sit; here, 
she told me such a story ; there, such anoth- 
er; and there, she bent over my table, while 
her tears flowed ! 

The room to which I was removed, was 
also under the leads ; but it had two windows, 
one to the north and the other to the west, 
the abode of perpetual damps, and horribly 
cold during the rigorous months of winter. 

The window on the Avest was very large ; 
that on the north was small, and situated 
above my bed. 

I went to the first and saw that it looked 
upon the palace of the patriarch. Other 
prisons were also near mine, in a wing of 
small extent upon the right, and in a projec- 
tion of the edifice which stood in front. In 
this projection were two prisons, one above 
the other. The lower one had an enormous 
window, through which I saw a man walk- 
ing within, richly dressed. It was Signor 
Caporali di Cesena. He perceived me, made 
some signs, and we gave each other our 
names. 

I wished then to examine where my other 
window looked to. I placed the table upon 
the bed, and upon the table, a chair, and hav- 
ing climbed up, I found myself on a level 
with a part of the roof of the palace, beyond 
which appeared a beautiful part of the city 
and the lagune.* 

I stopped to contemplate this fine view; 
and hearing my door open, I did not move. 
It was the jailer ; who, seeing me mounted 
so high, and forgetting that I could not, like 
a mouse, pass through the bars, thought that 
I was trying to escape. In the first moment 
of his trouble, and in spite of a gout in the 
hip which tormented him, he sprang upon 
the bed and caught me by the legs, screaming 
like an eagle. 

" But," said I, " do you not see, you old 
dunce, that these bars prevent my escape ? 
Do you not understand that I climbed up here 
from mere curiosity ?" 



* Lagune is the name given to the channels formed by 
the sea, at Venice. 



MY PRISONS. 



45 



"I see, sir, I see; I understand . . . but 
come down, I teil you, come down; there* are 
so many temptations to escape." 

I was obliged to come down ; and did so, 
laughing. 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

At the windows of the lateral prisons, I 
recognized six other persons confined for po- 
litical reasons. 

Here, then, at the moment when I was 
preparing myself for a solitude greater than 
before, I found myself in a sort of world. 
At first, I was discontented — whether my 
long, hermit-like seclusion had already made 
my disposition unsocial, *r the unpleasant 
issue of my relations with Julian had made 
me distrustful. 

Nevertheless, the little conversation that 
we had together, partly by words, partly by 
signs, soon appeared to me beneficial, if not 
as a stimulant to cheerfulness, at least, as an 
amusement. I never said a word to any one 
of my relations with Julian ; we had both 
given our word of honor that the secret should 
remain buried with us. If I speak of it in 
these pages, it is because those whose eyes 
they may meet, whoever they are, will not be 
able to conjecture, who, out of so many 
wretches confined in these prisons, took the 
name of Julian. 

To these new acquaintances above-men- 
tioned, among my fellow-prisoners, was added 
another, which was also very pleasant. 

From my large window, I saw beyond the 
projection of the prison in front, a long extent 
of roofs surmounted with chimneys, terraces, 
steeples, cupolas, which faded away in the 
perspective of the sea and sky. In the house 
nearest to me, which formed a wing of the 
patriarchal mansion, dwelt a good family, 
who acquired a right to my gratitude, by 
manifesting to me, through signs, the pity with 
which I inspired them. A bow, a word of 
love to the unhappy, is a great charity ! 



At first, from a window of this house, a 
little child of nine or ten years old, raised his 
little hands towards me, and I heard him 
cry out : 

" Mamma, mamma ! they have put a pris- 
oner up yonder in the leads ! Poor prisoner, 
who are you ?" 

" I am Silvio Pellico," I replied. 

Another boy, a little larger, ran also to the 
window, and shouted : 

" You are Silvio Pellico." 

" Yes, and you, dear children ?" 

" I am called Antonio S , and my 

brother, Giuseppe." 

Tiien he turned round and said ; " What 
else must I ask him ?." 

And a lady, whom I supposed to be their' 
mother, standing half concealed, suggested 
kind words to the dear children, which they 
repeated to me, and I thanked them with the 
most lively tenderness. 

These conversations Were a small matter, 
and it behooved us not to carry them too far, 
lest the jailer might call to us. But each 
day, morning, noon and evening, they were 
repeated, to my great consolation. When 
the candles were lighted, the lady closed the 
window, and the boys shouted : " Good night, 
Silvio !" And she, emboldened by the ob- 
scurity, repeated in a voice of emotion : 
" Good night, Silvio ! Courage !" 

W T hen the children were at breakfast or 
luncheon, they said to me : " Oh, if we could 
give you some of our coffee and milk ! Oh, 
if we could give you some of our cakes ! The 
day you gain your liberty, remember to come 
and see us ! We will give you some cakes, 
good and warm, and so many kisses !" 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

The month of October brought with it the 
most dismal of my anniversaries. I had been ar- 
rested on the 13th of this month of the year pre- 
ceding. Several other sad remembrances 
recurred in connection with this month. Two 
years before, in October, a man of merit, 



46 



MY PRISONS. 



whom I much esteemed, was, by a fatal acci- 
dent, drowned in the Tecino. In October, 
three years before, Odoardo Briche, a young 
man whom I loved as if he had been my son, 
killed himself involuntarily with a musket. 
In my boyhood, another grievous affliction 
had befallen me in October. 

Although I was not superstitious, this 
gloomy concurrence of remembrances so 
tragical, filled me with sadness. 

While conversing from my window with 
these children and my companions in cap- 
tivity, I feigned cheerfulness, but scarcely re- 
entered into my den, an inexpressible load of 
grief weighed down my soul. 

I took my pen to compose some verses, or 
to apply myself to some other literary occu- 
pation, and an irresistible force seemed to 
constrain me to write some totally different 
thing. What ? Long letters that I could not 
send; long letters to my dear family, in which 
I poured out all my heart. I wrote them 
upon the table and then scraped them off. 
They were filled with warm expressions of 
tenderness, and remembrances of the happi- 
ness I had enjoyed with my parents, and 
brothers and sisters, so indulgent and so lov- 
ing. The violent longings that I felt to see 
them, stirred up within me an infinity of 
sweet affections. After having written 
hours and hours, there always remained other 
feelings to be unfolded. 

This was to repeat my biography under a 
new form, and to create for myself an illusion 
by reviewing the past, and forcibly fix my 
eyes upon that happy time that was no more. 
But, O God ! how many times, after drawing 
a most lively picture of one of the happiest, 
passages of my life, after exciting my imagi- 
nation to such a degree as to believe myself 
with the persons to whom I was talking, all 
at once I have recollected the present, dropped 
my pen and shuddered with horror ! Mo- 
ments truly fearful were these ! I had already 
experienced them before, but never with such 
convulsions as then assailed me. 

I attributed these convulsions, and these 
horrible mental sufferings, to the excessive 
excitement of my feelings, occasioned by the 
epistolary form which I gave to these writings, 



by addressing them to individuals so dear to 
me. 

I tried to do something else, and could not ; 
I wished at least to abandon the epistolary 
form, but could not. As soon as I took my 
pen and commenced writing, it always re- 
sulted in a letter full of tenderness and grief. 

" Am I no longer a free agent ?" said I ; " is 
not this necessity of doing what I would not, 
a disorder of my brain ? This never happened 
before. It might have been explained in the 
early part of my imprisonment, but now that 
I am used to the life of a prison : now that 
my imagination ought to be calm in all re- 
spects ; now that my mind is so much nour- 
ished by philosophical and religious reflection, 
how am I becoming the slave of the blind 
desires of my heart, and growing so childish ? 
Let us apply ourselves to something else." 

Then I sought to pray, or to dive into the 
study of the German language. Vain efforts ! 
I discovered myself in the act of writing a 
new letter. 



CHAPTER XLV. 

Such a state was a real malady ; I do not 
know whether I ought not to call it a species 
of somnambulism. It was, doubtless, the 
effect of great weariness produced by watch- 
ing and tension of mind. 

The evil went further : my nights passed 
constantly without sleep and generally fever- 
ish. It was in vain that I ceased to take 
coffee; my sleeplessness was the same. 
There seemed to be in me two men, one al- 
ways wishing to write letters, and the other 
to do something else. " Well," said I, " let 
us combine the two; still write letters, but 
write them in German; by that means, we 
shall learn the language." 

Henceforth, I wrote everything in bad Ger- 
man; in this manner, I made at least some 
progress in that study. 

In the morning, after long watching, my 
weary head fell into a kind of stupor. Then, 



MY PRISONS. 



47 



in my dreams, or rather in my delirium, I 
thought I saw my father, my mother, or 
others that I loved, giving way to despair 
on account of my fate. I heard their piteous 
sobbings, and immediately awoke, frightened 
and sobbing also. 

Sometimes, during these brief dreams, I 
seemed to hear my mother consoling the oth- 
ers, and entering my prison with them, and 
addressing most holy words to me upon the 
duty of resignation ; and when I was most 
rejoiced at her fortitude, and that of the rest, 
all at once she burst into tears, and they all 
wept together. No one can express what 
was then the anguish of my soul. 

To escape from so much misery, I tried the 
plan of not going to bed at all ; I kept the 
light burning the whole night, and remained 
at my table reading and writing. But what ! 
There came a moment when I read perfectly 
awake, but without understanding anything, 
my head having absolutely no power to col- 
lect its ideas. Then I copied something, but 
copied while thinking of everything but that 
which I was writing; thinking of my af- 
flictions. 

Yet if I lay down, it was still worse ; no 
position was supportable : I was disturbed 
with convulsive agitations, and was soon 
obliged to get up ; or if I slumbered a little, 
those despairing dreams made me worse than 
remaining awake. 

My prayers were dry, and nevertheless I 
repeated them often ; not with superfluity of 
words, but an ejaculation to God — to that 
God-made man, who experienced all the suf- 
ferings of humanity. 

During these horrible nights, my imagina- 
tion sometimes became so excited that, al- 
though awake, I seemed to hear, at one time, 
groans in my prison ; at other times, stifled 
laughter. From my infancy up, I had never 
believed in sorcerers or spirits, and now these 
laughs and groans terrified me. I knew not 
how to account for them, and was constrained 
to doubt whether I was not the sport of some 
mysterious and malignant powers. 

Many times I seized the light with a trem- 
bling hand, and saw if nobody was concealed 
under my bed, to mock me. Often the sus- 



picion occurred to me, that I had been re- 
moved from my room and transferred to this, 
because there was some trap or some secret 
aperture in the wall, from which these swag- 
gerers could spy out all I did, and cruelly di- 
vert themselves by terrifying me. 

When I was seated at my table, some one 
seemed now to pluck me by the coat, now to 
have given a push to a book that fell to the 
earth : again, I thought somebody came be- 
hind me, and blew my candle to put it out. 
Then I sprung to my feet, looked around, 
walked the room with suspicion, and asked 
myself whether I was mad or in my senses ; 
for of those things that I heard and saw, I 
no longer knew what was reality or illusion, 
and cried out, in anguish, " My God, my 
God, why hast thou forsaken me ?" 



CHAPTER XLVI. 

On one occasion, having gone to bed a little 
before the dawn of day, I felt perfectly sure of 
having put my handkerchief under my*pillow. 
After a moment's slumber, I awoke as usual, 
and imagined they were strangling me. I 
perceived that my neck was tightly bound. 
Strange affair ! It was bound with my own 
handkerchief, closely tied, with many knots. 
I would have sworn that I had not made those 
knots, that I had not touched my handkerchief 
since I placed it under my pillow. I must 
have done it in a dream or a fit of delirium, 
without retaining any memory of it ; but I 
could not believe it ; and from that time forth 
I had an apprehension each night of being 
strangled. 

I am aware how ridiculous such follies must 
appear to others : but to me, who experienced 
them, they caused so much harm, that I 
shudder at them still. 

They vanished every morning; and whilst 
the daylight lasted, I felt my mind so much 
strengthened against these terrors, that it 
seemed impossible that I could ever suffer 
them again. But at sunset I commenced 



48 



MY PRISONS. 



shuddering again, and each night brought 
back the foolish extravagances of the pre- 
ceding. 

The greater ray weakness was in the dark, 
the more vigorous were my efforts during the 
day, to appear cheerful in conversation with 
my companions, the two children of the pa- 
triarchal mansion, and my jailers. No one 
hearing me joke as I did, would have ima- 
gined the miserable infirmity to which I was 
subject. By these efforts I hoped to fortify 
myself; but they availed nothing. These 
nocturnal visions, that in the day I called 
foolish illusions, returned at evening, for me, 
frightful realities. 

If I had dared, I would have petitioned the 
commission to change my room, but was 
unable to make up my mind to it, for fear of 
being laughed at. 

All reasonings, all resolutions, all studies, 
and all prayers being useless, the horrible 
idea of being wholly and for ever forsaken of 
God took possession of me. 

All the wicked sophisms against Provi- 
dence, which, in a state of reason a few weeks 
before, appeared so absurd, now came to roar 
in my head like a wild beast, and seemed to 
me worthy of attention. 

I struggled for some time against these 
temptations, then abandoned myself to them. 

I disowned the goodness of religion ; and 
said, as I had heard the most furious atheist 
say, and as Julian lately wrote to me, "Reli- 
gion is good for nothing but to enfeeble the 
mind." I had the hardihood to believe, that 
by renouncing God, my mind would recover 
its forces. Mad confidence ! I denied God, 
and did not know how to deny the existence 
of those invisible and mischievous beings that 
seemed to surround me, and feed upon my 
grief. 

What terms can describe this torment ? Is 
it sufficient to call it a disease? or was it at 
the same time a chastisement from Heaven 
to humble my pride, and teach me, that 
without special light I might become an un- 
believer like Julian, and even more foolish 
than he? 

However it maybe, God delivered me from 
so great an evil, at a moment when I least 



expected it. One morning, after taking my 
coffee, I was seized with violent vomitings 
and colic. I thought I was poisoned. After 
the fatigues of vomiting, I was all in perspi- 
ration, and went to bed. Towards noon I 
went to sleep, and slept peacefully until 
evening. 

I awoke, surprised at so great a rest; and 
feeling no further want of sleep, I got up. 
"When up," said I, "I shall be stronger 
against my accustomed terrors." 

But the terrors came not. I rejoiced at it, 
and in the fulness of my gratitude, returning 
to God, I cast myself upon the ground to adore 
Him, and to demand His pardon for having 
denied Him many days. This effusion of joy 
exhausted my strength ; and, remaining some 
time upon my knees, leaning upon a chair, I 
was again seized with drowsiness, and slept 
in that position. 

Then, whether after one or more hours I 
know not, I half awoke; but scarcely taking 
time to throw myself, dressed, upon the bed, 
I slept again until daybreak. I was drowsy 
the whole day ; at night I lay down early, 
and slept the entire night. 

What crisis had taken place in me, I know 
not, but I was cured. 



CHAPTER XLVII. 

The nausea which my stomach had suffered 
for a long time ceased, my headaches dis- 
appeared, and then came an extraordinary 
appetite. My digestion was good, and my 
strength increased. Wonderful Providence ! 
It had taken away my strength to humble 
me ; it restored it to me because the epoch of 
condemnations approached, and wished not 
that I should succumb to their announcement. 

On the 24th of November, one of our com- 
panions, Doctor Foresti, was taken from the 
prison of the Leads, and removed, I could not 
learn where. The jailer, his wife, and the 
secondini, were dejected; but none of them 
was willing to clear up the mystery. 

" Why do you want to know," said Treme- 



MY PRISONS. 



49 



rello to me, "if there is nothing good to 
learn ? I have already told you loo much, 
too much." 

" Come on, why keep it a secret ?" said I, 
shuddering. "Have I not understood you? 
He is then condemned to death !" 

" Who ? . . . . he ? . . . Doctor Fores- 
ti?" . . . . 

Tremerello hesitated; but the desire of 
talking was not the least of his virtues. 

" You shall not say afterwards that I am a 
babbler; I really did not want to open my 
mouth on these things. Remember that you 
forced me." 

"Yes, yes; I forced you. But come ! tell 
me all. What has happened to poor Foresti ?" 

"Ah! sir, they have made him pass over 
the Bridge of Sighs ! He is in the criminal 
prisons ! Sentence of death has been read to 
him and two others besides." 

" And this sentence will be executed ? 
When ? Oh ! the unhappy men ! And who 
are the other two?" 

" I know nothing more about it — nothing 
more. The sentences have not yet been made 
public. It is said in Venice that there will be 
several commutations of punishment. God 
grant that the sentence of death may not be 
executed upon either of them ! God grant 
that if all cannot escape death, you may, at 
least ! I bear to you as much affection- 
pardon the liberty — as if you were my 
brother." 

And he went away greatly moved. The 
reader may imagine in what agitation I spent 
all that day, the following night, and the 
many other days during which I could find 
out nothing more. 

This uncertainty lasted a month. At length, 
the sentences relating to the first trials were 
made public. They affected many persons ; 
nine of whom were condemned to death, and 
then, by grace, to carcere duro — some for 
twenty years, others for fifteen (and in both 
cases they were to undergo their punishment 
in the fortress of Spielberg, near the city of 
Briinn, in Moravia); others for ten years or 
less (the latter went to the fortress of Lubia- 
na). 

Was this commutation of punishment, 



granted to all those of the first trial, a proof 
that death would spare also those of the 
second ? or, had indulgence been extended to 
the first only, because they had been arrested 
before the proclamation which had been pub- 
lished against secret societies ? And would 
all the rigors of the law fall upon the second ? 
" The solution of these doubts cannot be 
far off," said I. " Thanks be to Heaven that 
I have time to foresee death and prepare my- 
self for it." 



CHAPTER XL VIII. 

My only thought was to die like a Christian, 
and with due courage. I felt a temptation to 
escape the gibbet by suicide, but it left me. 
What merit was it not to permit one's self to 
be choked by the executioner, but to become 
one's own executioner ? To save one's honor ? 
And is it not childishness to suppose it is more 
honor to cheat the executioner than not to do 
it, when one is obliged to die ? Even had I 
not been a Christian, suicide, when I reflected 
upon it, would have appeared a foolish satis- 
faction, and a useless thing. 

" If the term of my life has come," I con- 
tinued, "am I not fortunate that it comes in 
such a manner as to allow me time to com- 
pose myself, and purify my conscience by 
desires and penitence worthy of a man ? 
Judging like the vulgar, that of the gibbet is 
the worst of deaths ; but in the judgment of 
the wise, is not that death preferable to so 
many others which happen by disease, which, 
by enfeebling the intellect, leaves no more 
opportunity for the mind to rise above the 
grovelling thoughts of earth ?" 

The justness of such reasoning penetrated 
my mind so profoundly, that the horror of 
death, and even of this species of death, was 
entirely removed from me. I meditated long 
upon the sacraments which were to strengthen 
me for the solemn moment, and deemed my- 
self in a condition to receive them with such 
dispositions as were necessary to experience 



50 



MY PRISONS. 



their efficacy. Should I have preserved this 
elevation of soul which I thought I possessed, 
this peace, t,his indulgent regard toward those 
who hated me, this joy of sacrificing my life 
(o the will of God, if I had been led forth to 
execution ? Alas ! man is full of contradic- 
tions, and when he appears most firm and 
holy, he may, in an instant, fall into weakness 
and guilt. Whether I should then have died 
worthily, God alone knows. I do not think 
well enough of myself to affirm it. 

Meanwhile the probable approach of death 
so impressed this idea upon my imagination, 
that to die seemed not only possible, but an- 
nounced by infallible presentiments. No hope 
of evading this fate any longer entered my 
heart, and at every sound of footsteps or of 
keys, at every opening of my door, I said to 
myself: "Courage! perhaps they are coming 
for me to hear my sentence. Let us listen to 
it with calmness and dignity, and bless the 
Lord." 

I meditated what I should write for the 
last time to my family, and particularly to my 
father, to my mother, and to each of my bro- 
thers and sisters; and revolving in my mind 
expressions of love so profound and sacred, I 
was melted with tenderness ; I wept, and 
those tears did not unnerve my resigned will. 

How could my sleeplessness have returned ? 
Yet how different from the former ! I no 
longer heard laughter or groans in my room, 
nor raved of spirits or men concealed. The 
night was more delicious to me than the day, 
because I concentrated myself more in prayer. 
I usually went to bed at four o'clock, and 
slept peacefully about two hours. After 
waking, I remained late in bed to rest, and 
rose about eleven. 

One evening I had lain down a little sooner 
than usual, and had slept scarcely a quarter 
of an hour, when, waking suddenly, I saw a 
brilliant light upon the wall opposite to me. 
I was afraid I had relapsed into the old deli- 
rium ; but what I saw was not an illusion. 
The light came from the little north window, 
under which I was lying. 

I jumped to the floor, took the table and 

ut it upon the bed, and placing a chair upon 

it, ascended ; and saw one of the most beau- 



tiful and terrible spectacles of fire that could 
be imagined. 

It was a grand conflagration, at the distance 
of a musket-shot from our prison. It broke 
out at the building containing the public ba- 
keries, which it entirely consumed. 

The night was very dark, which rendered 
more conspicuous the vast globes of flame and 
smoke, agitated as they were by a furious 
wind. Sparks flew on all sides, as if they rained 
from the heavens. The neighboring lagune 
reflected the fire. A multitude of gondolas 
went and came. I pictured to myself the 
alarm and danger of those who dwelt in the 
burning building and in those adjacent, and 
sympathized with them. I heard the distant 
voices of men and women calling to each oth- 
er : " Tognina ! Mormolo ! Beppo ! Zanze !" 
Again the name of Zanze rung in my ears! 
There are thousands of that name in Venice; 
yet I feared that it might be that one whose 
memory was so grateful to me. Could the 
unhappy girl be there ! perhaps enveloped in 
flames ? Oh, that I could fly to her rescue ! 

Panting, shuddering, admiring, I remained 
at the window till daybreak ; then I descend- 
ed, oppressed with mortal sadness, and fancy- 
ing the damage much greater than it was. 
Tremerello informed me that only the baker- 
ies and the stores attached to them, with a 
considerable quantity of flour in sacks, were 
burned. 



CHAPTER XLIX. 

My imagination was still deeply impressed 
by the sight of this fire, when, a few nights 
after (I had not yet gone to bed, and was 
seated at my table, studyiog, all benumbed 
with cold), lo ! some voices close by me 
screamed : " Fire ! fire I O blessed Virgin ! 
we are lost /" They were those of the jailer, 
his wife, their children, and the secondini. 

The cold left me in an instant ; I sprung to 
my feet, covered with perspiration, and looked 
all around, to ascertain if the flames could yet 
be seen. They could not. 



MY PRISONS. 



51 



Yet the fire was in the palace itself, in 
some office-room near the prisons. 

One of the secondini exclaimed : " Master, 
if the fire spreads, what shall we do with 
these gentlemen confined in the cage ?" 

The jailer replied ; " I have not the heart 
to let them bum. Yet I cannot open the 
prisons without the order of the commission. 
Come on ! ran quick and ask permission." 

" I am going at once, sir, but the answer 
will not come in time, depend upon it." 

Where now was that heroic resignation 
which I thought myself so sure of possessing 
while thinking of death ? Why did the idea 
of being burnt alive throw me into a fever ? 
as if it were more pleasant to be strangled 
than to be burned ! I made this reflection, 
and was ashamed of my fear; I was about to 
call to the jailer to open the door to me in 
charity, but I restrained myself. Neverthe- 
less, I was afraid. 

" Behold, then," said I, " what will be my 
courage, if, escaping from the fire, I am led 
forth to death ! I shall restrain myself, I shall 
conceal my cowardice from others, but I shall 
tremble. But . . .is it not courage to feel 
afraid, yet to act as if we had no fear ? 
Is it not generosity to give voluntarily what 
we regret to give? Is it not obedience to 
obey, even when we do it with reluctance?" 

The tumult in the house of the jailer was 
so great, that it indicated the danger to be 
still increasing. The secondino who went to 
ask permission to bring us out of these places, 
did not return ! At length, I seemed to hear 
his voice. I listened, but could not distinguish 
his words. I wait, hope; but in vain ! No- 
body comes. Can it be possible that they are 
not allowed to save us from the fire ? and if 
there were no longer any way of escape ? If 
the jailer and his family had hard work to 
secure their own safety, and nobody else 
thought of the poor prisoners? 

" But," I resumed, " this is neither philoso- 
phy nor religion. Had I not better prepare 
myself to see the flames enter my room and 
devour me ?" 

In the meanwhile, the clamor diminished 
by degrees, and at length I heard it no more. 
Is this a proof that the fire has stopped ? or 



lhat all who could, have taken flight, and 
none remain here but victims abandoned to a 
cruel death ? 

The continuation of the silence tranquillized 
me : I knew that the fire had been extin- 
guished. I went to bed, reproaching myself 
with the anxiety I had suffered, as a coward- 
ice; and now that there was no longer danger 
of being burnt, I was sorry that I had not 
perished in the flames, rather than be put to 
death, in a few days, by the hand of man. 

The next morning I learnt from Tremerello 
the particulars of the fire, and laughed at the 
fefr that, he said, he had felt, as if my own 
had not been equal to or greater than his. 



CHAPTER L. 

On the 11th of January, 1822, about nine 
in the morning, Tremerello took an opportu- 
nity to come to me, and said with much 
agitation : 

" Do you know that in the isle of St. Mi- 
chael di Murano, a short distance from Venice, 
there is a prison in which are more than a 
hundred carbonari V 

" You have told me that several times 
already. Well — what do you want to say ? 
Come, speak. Perhaps some of them have 
been condemned ?" 

" Precisely.-' 

" Who ?" 

" I do not know." 

" Can my unhappy Maroncelli be one ?" 

" Ah ! sir, I know not, I know not who 
they are." 

And he went away disturbed and regarding 
me with a look of compassion. 

A little after, the jailer entered, accompa- 
nied by the secondini and a man whom I had 
never seen. The jailer appeared confused. 
The stranger began : 

" Signor, the commission have given orders 
that you should come with me." 

"Let us go," I replied. "And you, who 
are you ?" 

" I am the keeper of the prisons of St. Mi- 
chael, whither you are to be transferred." 



12 



MY PRISONS. 



The jailer of the Leads gave up to him my 
money which he had in his hands. I asked 
and obtained permission to make some pres- 
ent to the secondini. I put my clothes in 
order, took my Bible under my arm and 
started. Whilst I was descending the long 
stairs, Tremerello secretly pressed my hand, 
as if he would say, " Unhappy man ! thou 
art lost !" 

We went out by a gate that looked upon 
the lagune ; where a gondola with two secon- 
dini of the new jailer awaited our coming. 

I entered the gondola agitated by contend- 
ing emotions — a certain regret at leavingJthe 
residence of the Leads, where I had suffered 
much, but where I had formed some attach- 
ments, and where I had been loved in return, 
— the pleasure of finding myself in the open 
air after so long a period of seclusion, of see- 
ing the heavens, the waters, and the city, 
without the gloomy, square grate of iron — 
the remembrance of the joyous gondola, 
which in happier times bore me upon this 
same lagune, and of the gondolas of the lake 
of Como, of Lake Maggiore, and the little 
boats upon the Po, and those of the Rhone 
and the Saone. Oh ! smiling years, vanished 
for ever! Who in the world has enjoyed 
happiness equal to mine ? 

Born of the tenderest parents, in that condi- 
tion which is not poverty, and which, holding 
a middle place between the poor and the rich, 
affords a facility for gaining a correct know- 
ledge of both these states — a condition which 
I consider most advantageous for cultivating 
the affections; — after an infancy cherished by 
the sweetest cares of home, I had gone to 
Lyons to live with a cousin of my mother's, 
very rich and very worthy of his riches. 
There, all that could serve to enchant a heart 
formed for elegance and love had delighted 
the first ardor of my youth. Thence return- 
ing into Italy, and settled at Milan with my 
parents, I had continued to study, and to love 
society and books, finding everywhere excel- 
lent friends and flattering applause. Monti 
and Foscolo, although enemies to each other 
were equally kind to me. I was most at- 
tached to the latter ; and this man so irasci- 
ble, whose rudeness gained him so many ene- 



mies, was to me all gentleness and cordiality, 
and I had for him a tender veneration. Other 
literary men of distinction testified an equal 
regard for me, and I loved them in return. 
No envy or calumny ever assailed me, or at 
least they came from people so low that they 
could not injure me. 

At the fall of the kingdom of Italy, my 
father had again taken up his residence at 
Turin with the rest of my family, and I, ever 
postponing my re-union with these beloved 
objects, had ended by remaining at Milan, 
where I was surrounded with so much hap- 
piness that I could not induce myself to re- 
nounce it. 

Among other excellent friends, three in 
Milan held the highest place in my heart; 
D. Pietro Borsieri, Monsignore Lodovico di 
Bresne, and Count Luigi Porro Lambertenghi. 
To these was added afterwards, the Count 
Federigo Confalonieri. 

Having undertaken the education of the 
two sons of Porro, I was to them as a father, 
and to their father as a brother. To that 
house flowed not only all the cultivated mind 
which Milan possessed, but a crowd of distin- 
guished travellers. There I became acquaint- 
ed with Madame de Stael, Schlegel, Davis, 
Byron, Hobhouse, Brougham, and many other 
illustrious persons from various parts of Eu- 
rope. Oh ! how the acquaintance of men of 
merit expands the soul and stimulates it to 
self-ennoblement! Yes, I was happy! I 
would not have exchanged my lot for that of 
a prince ! And from a lot so bright, to fall 
into the hands of jailers, to be dragged from 
prison to prison, and to end by being strangled 
or perish in chains! 



CHAPTER LI. 

Occupied with these reflections, I arrived 
at St. Michael, and was locked up in a room 
which presented a view of a court, the lagune, 
and the beautiful island of Murano. I inquir- 
ed after Maroncelli from the jailer, his wife 
and four secondini, but they made me short 



MY PRISONS. 



53 



visits, full of distrust, and would tell me no- 
thing. 

Nevertheless, where there are five or 
six persons, it is rare not to find one in- 
clined to compassion and willing to speak. 
Such a one I found, and learned what fol- 
lows : 

Maroncelli, after a long, solitary confine- 
ment, had been put with the Count Camillo 
Laderchi; the latter, a few days before, had 
I gone out of prison, having been declared inno- 
! cent, and Maroncelli was alone once more. 
i Of our companions there had been set at 
! liberty as innocent, Professor Gian-Domenico 
| Romagnosi and Count Giovanni Arrivabene. 
Captain Rezia and Signore Canova were to- 
gether, and Professor Ressi lay dying in a 
prison contiguous to theirs. 

" The sentence of those who are not gone, 
has come, then," said I. "And what are 
they waiting for, to let us know it ? Perhaps 
till poor Ressi dies, or is in a condition to hear 
his sentence; is it not so ?*' 
" I believe so." 

Every day I inquired after the unfortunate 
sufferer. 

" He has lost his speech ; — he has recovered 
it, but is delirious and comprehends nothing; 

he gives a few signs of life; he often spits 

! blood, and is delirious again;— he is worse; — 
! he is better;— he is in agony." 

Such were the answers given me for many 
weeks. At last it was told me one morning: 
"He is dead!" 

I dropped a tear for him, and consoled my- 
self with the thought that he had been igno- 
rant of his condemnation. 

On the following day, the 12th of February, 
1822, at ten in the morning, the jailer came 
for me. He conducted me into the hall of the 
commission and withdrew. The president, 
the prosecuting officer and two assistant 
judges were in their seats : they arose. 

The president, in an accent of noble com- 
I miseration, told me that the sentence had 
come, that the judgment was terrible, but 
that it had already been mitigated by the 
Emperor. The prosecutor read to me the 
sentence: "Condemned to death." After- 



wards the imperial rescript 



" The punish- 



ment is commuted to fifteen years of carcere 
duro in the fortress of Spielberg," 

I answered: "The will of God be done !" 
It was in truth my intention to receive this 
terrible blow like a Christian, and neither to 
show nor to nourish resentment against any 
one whatever. 

The president praised my calmness and 
counselled me to preserve it always, adding 
that this resignation might, perhaps, within 
two or three years, be worthy of a still greater 
mercy. (Instead of two or three, it was many 
more.) 

The other judges also addressed me with 
words of kindness and hope. But one of 
them, who, during my trial had always 
shown himself most hostile, said to me some- 
thing polite, which nevertheless seemed cut- 
ting. This courtesy seemed to be belied by 
his looks, in which, I could have sworn, there 
was a smile of joy and insult. 

Now I would no longer swear that it was 
so; I might very well have been deceived. 
But then my blood was boiling, and I could 
scarcely refrain from bursting into a fury. I 
dissembled, and whilst they praised my Chris- 
tian patience, I had already secretly lost it. 

" To-morrow," said the prosecutor, " it will 
be our painful duty to announce to you your 
sentence in public; it is a formality that can- j* 
not be dispensed with." 

" Be it so," I replied. 

"From this moment," he added, " you can 
enjoy the company of your friend." 

And calling the jailer, they again consigned 
me to him, telling him to put me with Ma- 
roncelli. 



CHAPTER LII. 

What a delicious moment was it for my 
friend and me to see each other again after a 
separation of a year and three months, and so 
many sufferings ! The joys of friendship 
made us for an instant almost forget our con- 
demnation. 



54 



MY PRISONS. 



Soon, however, I tore myself from his arms 
to take my pen and write to my father. I 
ardently desired that the announcement of my 
sad fate should be communicated to my family 
by myself rather than by others, in order that 
the anguish of their loving hearts might be 
soothed by my language of peace and religious 
resignation. The judges promised me to de- 
spatch this letter as soon as possible. 

After this, Maroncelii spoke to me of bis 
trial, and I of mine. We related in turn, our 
prison adventures, then went to the window 
and saluted three of our friends who were at 
theirs ; two of them were Canova and Ptezia, 
who were together, the former condemned to 
six years of car cere duro, and the other to 
three ; the third was Doctor Caesar Aunari, 
who, during the preceding months, had been 
my neighbor under the Leads. He had not 
been condemned, and being declared innocent, 
he soon after left the prison. 

Mutual converse formed an agreeable en- 
tertainment for us during the whole day and 
evening. But after we had gone to bed and 
the light was extinguished, and silence return- 
ed, I found it impossible to sleep ; my head 
burned, and my heart bled in thinking of my 
family. Will my old parents bear up against 
so great a misfortune ? Will their other 
children be sufficient to console them ? They 
were all as much loved as I, and much more 
worthy of it ; but do a father and mother ever 
find in the children that remain, a compensa- 
tion for the one they have lost ? 

Would that I had thought only of my rela- 
tions and others who were dear to me. Their 
remembrance afflicted and softened me. But 
I thought also of the supposed smile of joy and 
insult of the judge, of the trial, of the cause of 
my condemnation, of political passions, of the 
fate of so many of my friends, — and I was 
then incapable of judging any of my adversa- 
ries with indulgence. God subjected me to a 
great proof! My duty would have been to 
sustain it with courage. I could not ! I would 
not ! Tne satisfaction of hating had a charm 
I above the sweets of forgiveness. I passed a 
; night of hell. 

In the morning I did not pray. The uni- 
verse seemed to me the work of a power hos- 



tile to goodness. Many times already, I had 
been the calumniator of God, but I should not 
have believed that I could become so again, 
and that too in a few hours ! Julian, in his 
greatest transports of rage, could not have 
been more, impious than I was. Revolving 
thoughts of hatred, especially when a man is 
smitten with a grievous misfortune that ought 
to make him more religious, becomes wicked 
even when it might have been just. Yes, 
even when it might have been just ; for hatred 
is impossible without pride. And who art 
thou, O wretched mortal, to pretend that any 
of thy equals judge thee severely; to pretend 
that no one could have injured thee with 
honest intentions, in the belief that he was 
acting with justice; to complain if God per- 
mits thee to suffer in one way rather than in 
another? 

I felt unhappy not to be able to pray; but 
where pride reigns, a man finds no other God 
but himself. 

I could have wished to commend my deso- 
late parents to a supreme Comforter, and I no 
longer believed in him ! 



CHAPTER LIII. 

At nine in the morning Maroncelii and I 
were placed in a gondola and conducted to 
the city. We landed at the palace of the 
Doge, and ascended to the prisons. They put 
us into a room that had been occupied a few 
days before by Signor Caporali, who had been 
transferred, I know not where. Nine or ten 
sbirri were seated there to guard us, and we 
promenaded the room, awaiting the moment 
when we should be led to the piazza. The 
delay was long. The prosecutor did not 
make his appearance till noon, to announce 
to us that we must go. The physician came 
also, and suggested to us 10 drink a glass 
of mint-water ; we accepted it and were 
grateful, not so much for that as for the 
heartfelt compassion that the good old man 
testified for us. It was Doctor Dosmo. The 



MY PRISONS. 



55 



chief sbirro then came up and put handcuffs 
upon us, and we followed him at:ended by 
the other sbirri. In descending the magnifi- 
cent staircase of the Giants, we recalled to 
mind the Doge Marino Faliero, decapitated 
there; we entered the grand portico which 
leads from the court of the palace to the 
Piazzetta, and arriving there we turned to 
the left towards the lagune. In the middle 
of the Piazzetta was the scaffold upon which 
we were to mount. From the staircase of 
Giants to the scaffold were ranged two files 
of Austrian soldiers, between whom we 
passed. 

Mounted upon the scaffold, we looked 
around, and saw an immense crowd of people 
agitated with terror, la various directions 
other soldiers were drawn up in the distance. 
We were told that there were cannons every- 
where with their matches lighted. 

It was on this Piazzetta in the September 
of 1820, a month before my arrest, a mendi- 
cant had said to me : " This is the place 
of misfortune." 

I recollected this mendicant, and thought 
to myself: who knows if he is not then also 
among so many thousands of spectators, and 
perhaps recognizes me ? 

The Austrian captain cried out to us to 
turn towards the palace and look up. We 
obeyed, and saw upon the balcony an officer 
of the court with a paper in his hand. It 
was the sentence. He read it in a loud voice. 

Profound silence reigned until he came to 
these words : " Condemned to death." Then 
arose a general murmur of compassion. A 
new silence succeeded, that they might hear 
the rest of the reading, and a new murmur 
received the words : " condemned to car cere 
duro, Maroaceili for twenty years, and Pelli- 
co for fifteen." 

The captain motioned to us to descend. 
We once more cast a look around us and de- 
scended. We re-entered the court, mounted 
the staircase, and returned to the room whence 
we had been taken ; our handcuffs were re- 
moved and we were sent back to St. Michael. 



CHAPTER LIV. 

Those who were condemned before us had 
already set out for Lubiana and Spielberg, 
accompanied by a commissary of police. 
Now the return of the same commissary was 
expected, that he might conduct us to our 
destination. This interval lasted a month. 

All my time was there spent in talking and 
listening to the conversation of others to 
divert my mind. Maroncelli moreover read 
me his literary compositions, and I read mine 
to him. One evening I read from my win- 
dow to Canova, Rezia and Armari, my Ester 
d\Engaddi, and the nest evening, the Iginia 
d'Asti. 

But at night I groaned and wept, and ob- 
tained little or no sleep. 

I desired, and at the same time dreaded, to 
learn how the news of my calamity had been 
received by my parents. 

At length I received a letter from my 
father. What was my grief to see that my 
last letter to him had not been sent immedi- 
ately, as I had so earnestly begged of the 
officer! My unhappy father, who 'always 
flattered himself that I should be acquitted, 
having one day taken up the Milan Gazette, 
had read in it my sentence. He himself 
related to me this cruel discovery, and left 
me to imagine how his soul had been rent 
by it. 

Oh ! how, in the boundless compassion 
which I felt for him, for my mother and 
all "my family, how I burned with indignation 
that my letter had not been carefully for- 
warded. There may have been no evil mo- 
tive in this delay, but I imagined an infernal 
one ; I thought I perceived in it a refinement 
of barbarity, a desire that the blow should 
fall as heavily as possible, even upon my in- 
nocent relations. 

I should have liked to be able to shed 
an ocean of blood to punish this fancied 
cruelty. 

Now that I judge of it dispassionately, I 
do not regard it as probable. This delay 
doubtless was caused by nothing but negli- 
gence. 

Furious as I was, I learned, with shudder- 



56 



MY PRISONS. 



ing, that ray companions intended to take 
communion at Easter, before their departure, 
and I felt that I ought not to do it, having 
such an unwillingness to forgive. That I 
should have ffiven such scandal ! . . . . 



CHAPTER LY. 

The commissary arrived at length from 
Germany, and came to tell us that in two 
days we should set out. 

"I have the pleasure," he added, " of be- 
ing able to give you some consolation. In 
returning from Spielberg, I saw at Vienna 
His Majesty the Emperor, who told me that 
your prison days would be reckoned at twelve 
hours instead of twenty-four. Signifying by 
this expression that the term of your impris- 
onment was shortened one-half." 

This diminution was never announced to 
us officially, yet there was no probability that 
the commissary lied, inasmuch as he did not 
impart that news to us as a secret, but with 
the knowledge of the commission. 

Nevertheless I could not rejoice at it. In 
my mind seven years and a half in irons were 
scarcely less dreadful than fifteen. It seemed 
impossible that I could live so long. 

My health was again quite bad. I had 
severe pains in the breast accompanied with 
a cough, and I thought my lungs were at- 
tacked. I ate little, and that little was not 
digested. 

Our departure took place in the night be- 
tween the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth of 
March. We were permitted to embrace our 
friend, Doctor Cesare Armari. A sbirro fet- 
tered us transversely, the right hand and the 
left foot, to prevent our escape. We embark- 
ed in a gondola and our guards rowed towards 
Fusina. 

On our arrival there we found two carriages 
in waiting. Rezia and Canova got into one, 
Maroncelli and myself into the other. In the 
former was the commissary with two prison- 
ers, and in the latter the under commissary 



with the other two. Six or seven police 
guards arrived with muskets and sabres ; 
some placed inside of the carriages and some 
on the box completed the convoy. 

To be compelled by misfortune to leave 
one's native land is always painful, but to 
leave it loaded with chains, to be led into hor- 
rible climates, destined to languish for years 
among sbirri, is a thing so heart-rending that 
there are no terms to express it. 

Before passing the Alps, my nation became 
every hour more dear to me, on account of 
the commiseration manifested to us every- 
where by those whom we met. Our con- 
demnation having been known to the public 
for several weeks, we were expected in every 
city, in every village, in every isolated ham- 
let. In many places the commissaries and 
guards had trouble to disperse the crowd that 
surrounded us. The sympathy manifested for 
us was truly astonishing. 

At Udine a touching surprise happened to 
us. On arriving at the inn, the commissary 
made them shut the gate of the court to keep 
out the people. He assigned us a room and 
ordered the servants to bring us our supper 
and the necessaries for sleeping. A moment 
after three men entered with mattresses on 
their shoulders. What was our astonishment 
to perceive that only one of them was in the 
service of the house and that the others were 
two of our acquaintances! We pretended to 
assist them in arranging the mattresses, and 
secretly pressed their hands. Tears gushed 
from the hearts of all of us. Oh how pain- 
ful it was not to be able to shed them in each 
other's arms! 

The commissaries did not notice this touch- 
ing scene, but I suspected one of the guards 
of having penetrated the mystery, at the mo- 
ment that the good Dario squeezed my hand. 
This guard was a Venetian. He looked Da- 
rio and me in the face, turned pale, and ap- 
peared to hesitate whether he ought to raise 
his voice, but he kept silence and turned his 
eyes another way, pretending to see nothing. 
If he did not guess that these persons were 
our friends, he thought, at least, they were 
servants of our acquaintance. 



MY PRISONS. 



57 



CHAPTER LVI. 

It was scarcely daylight next morning 
when we left Udine. The excellent Dario 
was already in the street enveloped in a man- 

[ tie; he saluted us again and followed us a 

!; long time. We also saw a carriage follow- 
ing us for two or three miles, and in it a per- 
son who waved his handkerchief; at length 
it returned. Who was it? We could not 
conjecture. 

God bless all generous souls who are 
not ashamed to love the unfortunate. Ah ! 
I appreciate them the more because, in the 
years of my misfortune, I know some cow- 
ards who disowned me, and who thought to 
gain something by repeating the reproaches 
made against me. But these were few, while 
the number of the former was not small. 

I was mistaken in thinking that this com- 
passion which we found in Italy would cease 
as soon as we should arrive in a foreign land. 
Ah ! the good man is always the countryman 
of the unhappy ! When we were in Illyria 
and Austria the same things happened as at 
home. This groan was universal: Arme 
herren ! (poor gentlemen !) 

Sometimes, in entering a place the carria- 
ges were obliged to stop, before deciding 
where we should lodge. Then the people 
pressed around us, and we heard words of 
consolation which truly came from the heart. 
The goodness of these strangers touched me 
more than that of my own countrymen, Oh ! 
how grateful I was to them all ! how sweet 
is the sympathy of our fellow men, and how 
sweet it is to love them ! 

The consolation that I derived, diminished 
even my hatred against those that I called 

| my enemies. 

Who knows, thought I, if I saw their faces 
near and they saw mine; if I were able to 
read their hearts and they mine, who knows 

j that I should not he compelled to confess 
that there is no wickedness in them, and 
they, that there is none in me ! Who knows 
but we should be constrained to mutual pity 
and love. 

Too often men hate because they do not 
know each other; and if they should ex- 



change a few words together, they would 
shake hands in mutual confidence. 

We stopped one day at Lubiana, where 
Canova and Rezia were separated from us 
and conducted to the castle. It is easy to 
imagine how painful this separation was for 
all four. 

The evening of our arrival at Lubiana and 
the day following, a gentleman, who was 
said to be, if I rightly understood, a munici- 
pal secretary, politely came to keep us com- 
pany. He was a man of much humanity, 
and spoke of religion with tenderness and dig- 
nity. I suspected he was a priest ; priests in 
Germany are accustomed to dress like the 
laity. His was one of those ingenuous faces 
which inspire esteem; I regretted that I could 
not enjoy a longer acquaintance with him, 
and I am sorry that I have been so heedless 
as to forget his name. 

How sweet would it be to know thy name 
also, Oh! thou, young maiden, who, in a vil- 
lage of Styria, didst follow us in the middle 
of the crowd ; and when our carriage stopped 
for a few minutes, didst salute us with both 
hands, and then withdrew with thy handker- 
chief to thine eyes, leaning upon the arm of a 
thoughtful young man, whose light hair de- 
noted him to be a German, but who perhaps 
had been in Italy and had contracted a love 
for our unhappy nation. 

How sweet would it be to me to know the 
name of each of you, venerable fathers and 
mothers of families, who, in various places, 
approached us to ask if we had parents, and 
who, on learning that they were still living, 
grew pale, exclaiming: " Oh! may God soon 
restore you to those wretched old people !" 



CHAPTER LVII. 

We arrived at the place of our destination 
on the 10th of April. 

The city of Briinn is the Capital of Mora- 
via, and in it is the residence of the governor 
of the two provinces of Moravia and Silesia. 



58 



MY PRISONS. 



It is situated in a delightful valley and has a 
certain aspect of opulence. At that time it 
contained many flourishing manufactures of 
cloths which have since fallen to decay. Its 
population was about thirty thousand souls. 

Near its walls, on the west, rises an emi- 
nence, upon which stands the gloomy fortress 
of Spielberg, once the palace of the lords of 
Moravia, now the most rigorous prison of the 
Austrian monarchy. It was a very strong 
citadel; but the French bombarded and took 
it at the time of the famous battle of Auster- 
litz (the village of Austerlitz is at a little dis- 
tance from it). It has not since been restored 
so as to be used as a fortress, but a part of the 
enclosure which was dismantled has been 
rebuilt. About three hundred convicts, most- 
ly thieves and assassins, are confined in it, 
some sentenced to carcere duro, and others to 
carcere durissimo. 

Carcere duro signifies the being obliged to 
labor, to wear a chain upon the feet, to sleep 
upon naked planks, and to eat the meanest 
food imaginable. 

Carcere durissimo is to be chained in a 
still more dreadful manner, with a band of 
iron around the middle of the body, and the 
chain fixed to the wall in such a way that the 
prisoner can scarcely move about the plank 
that serves for his bed ; the food is the same, 
though the law says: bread and water. 

We prisoners of state were condemned to 
carcere duro. 

In climbing the ascent of the hill, we cast 
our eyes behind us to say adieu to the world, 
uncertain whether the gulf, which was about 
to swallow us alive, would ever open again 
for us. I was calm externally, but within 
roared. In vain I had recourse to philosophy 
to recover peace ; philosophy had no consola- 
tion sufficient for me. 

Having left Venice in bad health, the voy- 
age had dreadfully fatigued me ; my head 
and all my body ached. I had a burning 
fever. Physical pain contributed to keep me 
in a passion, and probably anger in its turn 
aggravated my bodily sufferings. 

We were consigned to the superintendent 
of Spielberg, by whom our names were 
written among those of thieves. In taking 



leave, the imperial commissary embraced us, 
and was much moved: "Gentlemen," said 
he, " I particularly recommend submission to 
you, for the least infraction of discipline might 
be seriously punished by the superintendent." 
The act of consignment being finished, 
Maroncelli and I were conducted to a subter- 
raneous passage, where two dark rooms not 
contiguous were open for us ; and each was 
locked up in his dungeon. 



CHAPTER LVIII. 

It is a very cruel thing, after having already 
said adieu to so many objects, and there re- 
main but two friends equally unhappy ; ah! 
yes, it is a very cruel thing to separate ! Ma- 
roncelli, on leaving me, saw that I was sick, 
and lamented in me a man whom probably 
he would never see again; I wept in him a 
flower brilliant with health, snatched perhaps 
for ever from the vivifying light of the sun; 
and that flower, how it lias withered ! it saw 
the light again one day; but, alas! in what 
condition ! 

"When I found myself alone in that horrible 
dungeon, and heard the bolts fasten; when by 
the feeble light which descended from a nar- 
row and elevated window, I distinguished the 
naked planks given me for a bed, and an 
enormous chain attached to the wall, I sat 
down shuddering upon the bed, and taking 
the chain I measured its length, thinking it 
was destined for me. 

Half an hour after, I heard the noise of 
keys ; the door opened ; the jailer was bring- 
ing a jug of water. 

" Here is your drink," said he in a rough 
voice, " to-morrow morning I will bring the 
bread." 

" Thanks, good man." 

"I am not good," he replied. 

" So much the worse for you," said I indig- 
nantly. "And this chain," I added, " is for 
me, perhaps." 

" Yes, sir, if you are not quiet, if you be- 
come furious or insolent ; but if you are 
reasonable we will only put a chain on 



MY PRISONS. 



your feet; the workman is preparing it 
now." 

He strided slowly up and down the room, 
shaking his formidable bunch of massive 
keys, and I, with angry eyes, wondered at his 
gigantic old and lean person ; and although 
the features of his face were not common, 
everything about him seemed to me the odi- 
ous expression of a brutal severity. 

Oh ! how unjust are men, in judging from 
appearances and according to their proud 
prejudices ! That man who, as I imagined, 
gaily shook his keys to make me feel his sad 
power; that man whom I believed to have 
grown harsh by a long habit of cruelty ; that 
man was entertaining feelings of compassion 
for me, and certainly spoke thus in a rough 
tone, only to conceal this feeling. He would 
have liked to conceal it, that he might not 
appear weak, and from fear that I should be 
offended at it. But at the same time suppos- 
ing that I was, perhaps, more unhappy than 
guilty, he wished to let me discover it. 

Weary of his presence, and still more by 
his lordly airs, I thought proper to humble 
him by speaking to him imperiously as to a 
servant : " Give me some drink." 

He looked at me and seemed to say: Arro- 
gant ! you must drop that habit of command- 
ing here. 

But he was silent ; he bent his long back, 
took the jug from the ground and gave it to 
me. I perceived that he trembled in taking 
it, and attributing this trembling to old age, 
a mingled feeling of pity and respect temper- 
ed my pride. 

" How old are you ?" said I in an accent of 
kindness. 

"Seventy-four years, sir; I have already 
seen many misfortunes, both of myself and 
others." 

This allusion to his misfortunes and those 
of others, was attended with a new trembling 
at the moment when he took the jug from 
me ; and I suspected it was the effect, not of 
age only, but of some generous emotion. 
This idea effaced from my mind the dislike 
which he had given me at first sight. 

"What is your name ?" I asked. 

" Fortune, sir, made a mock of me by giv- 



ing me the name of a great man. My name 
is Schiller." 

Then he told me in few words what was 
his country, his origin, the wars he had seen, 
and the' wounds he had received. 

He was bora in Switzerland, and belonged 
to a family of peasants; had borne arms 
against the Turks under General Laudohn in 
the time of Maria Theresa and Joseph II., 
and afterwards in all the wars of Austria 
against France, until the fall of Napoleon. 



CHAPTER LIX. 

When we come to conceive a better opi- 
nion of a man whom we, at first, judged un- 
favorably, then noticing more closely his face, 
his voice, and his manners, we seem to dis- 
cover evident signs of goodness. Is this dis- 
covery a reality ? I suspect it to be an 
illusion. The same face, the same voice, the 
same manners, appeared, a little before, 
evident signs of knavery. We no sooner 
change our judgment of his moral qualities, 
than we modify the conclusions of our science 
of physiognomy. How many faces we vene- 
rate, because we know that similar ones have 
belonged to worthy men, which, if they be- 
longed to other mortals, would appear to us 
by no means calculated to inspire veneration ! 
and vice versa. I once laughed very much 
at a lady, who, seeing a head of Catiline, 
and taking it for that of Collatinus, imagined 
she discovered in it the sublime grief of the 
latter for the death of Lucretia. And yet 
such illusions are common. 

Not that there are no faces of good people 
that bear the characters of goodness clearly 
impressed upon their features, and no faces of 
rogues that bear as clearly the characters of 
vice; but I maintain that there are many of 
doubtful expression. 

In short, when the old Schiller had ad- 
vanced somewhat in my good graces, I re- 
garded him more attentively than at first, and 
he was no longer disagreeable. To tell the 
truth, his conversation, notwithstanding a 



60 



MY PRISONS. 



certain rudeness, sometimes evinced traits of 
a noble soul. 

" Corporal, as I am," said he, " they have 
given me for a place of retreat, the sad office 
of a jailer, and, God knows, if it is not more 
painful to me than to risk my life upon the 
field of battle." 

I repented of having, just now, demanded 
of him something to drink, with haughtiness. 
" My dear Schiller," said I, pressing his hand, 
" you deny it in vain, I see that you are good ; 
and since I have fallen into this misfortune, I 
thank Heaven for having appointed you my 
guardian." 

He listened to my words, shook his head, 
and passing his hand across his forehead, like 
a man who has an unpleasant thought, he 
replied : 

"I am bad, sir. They made me take an 
oath to which I will never be wanting. I am 
obliged to treat all prisoners, and above all, 
prisoners of state, without regard to their 
condition, without indulgence and without 
permitting any abuse. The Bmperor knows 
what he is doins, and I must obey him." 

" You are a brave man, and I shall respect 
what you regard as a duty of conscience. 
He who acts in the sincerity of his conscience 
may err, hut he is pure before God." 

" Poor Signor ! have patience, and pity me. 
I wili be iron in my duties, but the heart . . . 
the heart is full of sorrow, not to be able to 
relieve the unhappy : this is what I wanted 
to tell you." 

We were both moved ; he begged me to be 
calm, not to give way to transports of rage, 
as convicts often do, that he might not be 
compelled to treat me harshly. 

He assumed then a rough tone, as if to 
conceal a part of his emotion, and said ; " Now 
I must go." 

Then he turned round to ask me how long 
I had had that wretched cough, and he 
launched a heavy malediction against the 
physician, because he did not come to see me 
that very evening. 

" You have a galloping fever, sir," added 
he; "I understand it: you need at least a 
straw bed; but until the physician has ordered 
it, we cannot give it to you." 



He went out, closed the door, and I stretch- 
ed myself upon those hard planks, still suffer- 
ing from fever, and violent pains in the breast; 
but less irritated, less the enemy of men, less 
removed from God. 



CHAPTER LX.< 

At night, the superintendent came, accom- 
panied by Schiller, another corporal, and two 
soldiers, to make an examination. 

Three examinations were required each 
day ; one in the morning, another at evening, 
and the third at midnight. The search ex- 
tended to every corner of the prison, even to 
the smallest things ; then the subalterns re- 
tired, and the superintendent (who morning 
and evening never failed in his visit) stopped 
some time to converse with me. 

The first time that I saw this little troop, a 
strange thought occurred to me. Still igno- 
rant of this annoying custom, and delirious 
with fever, I imagined they had come to 
murder me, and seized the long chain which 
lay near me, to break the skull of the first 
that should approach. 

" What are you doing ?" said the superin- 
tendent. "We do not come to hurt you: 
this is a visit of mere formality to all the 
cells, to assure ourselves that there is nothing 
out of order." 

I hesitated ; but when I saw Schiller ad- j 
vance towards me and amicably offer me his | 
hand, his paternal aspect inspired me with j 
confidence ; I let go the chain and took his 
hand within my own. 

" Oh, how it burns !" said he to the super- 
intendent. "If we could only give him a 
straw bed." 

He pronounced these words with an ex- 
pression of sorrow so sincere, so affectionate, 
that I was touched. 

The superintendent felt my pulse, and tes- 
tified" his compassion. He was a man of gen- 
teel manners, but durst not take upon himself 
any decision. 



MY PRISONS. 



61 



"Here everything is rigor, even for me," 
said he. "If I do not execute to the letter 
what is enjoined, I run the risk of being de- 
prived of my place." 

Schiller protruded his lips, and I would 
have bet that he thought to himself, "If 
I were superintendent, I would not carry my 
fears to that extent. It could never be reck- 
oned a great crime to adopt a decision so well 
justified by necessity, and so harmless to the 
government." 

When I was alone, my heart, which had 
been for some time incapable of profound re- 
ligious feelings, became softened, and I prayed. 
It was a prayer of benediction upon the head 
of Schiller; adding this petition: "Enable 
me, God, to discover also in the others some 
good quality which may attach me to them. 
I accept all the torments of imprisonment, 
but permit me to love! deliver me from the 
torment of hating my fellows!" 

At midnight, I heard many steps in the 
passage. The keys rattled, the door opened, 
and the corporal, with two guards, entered 
to make their visit. 

"Where is my old Schiller ?" said I, with 
solicitude. He had stopped in the passage. 

"I am here, I am here," answered he. 

And coming up to my bed of planks, he 
again felt my pulse, anxiously bending down 
to look at me, like a father over the bed of a 
sick son. 

"And now that I recollect, to-morrow is 
Thursday!" murmured he, "yes, Thursday ! 
too certain." 

" And what do you mean by that ?" 

"That the physician is accustomed to come 
only on' Monday, Wednesday and Friday 
mornings, and unfortunately he will not come 
to-morrow." 

"Do not be uneasy about it." 

"Not be uneasy about it? not be uneasy 
about it ? In the whole city nothing is talked 
of but the arrival of you gentlemen; the phy- 
sician cannot be ignorant of it. Why the 
devil has he not made a special effort to come 
once more ?" 

"Who knows but he will come to-morrow, 
although it is Thursday ?" 

The old man said nothing; but pressed my 



hand with a grasp powerful enough to lame 
it; and although he hurt me, he gave me 
pleasure; like the pleasure which a lover ex- 
periences when, in dancing, his beloved hap- 
pens to step upon his foot: he would willingly 
scream with pain, but, instead of that, he 
smiles at her and esteems himself happy. 



CHAPTER LXI. 

Thursday morning, after a very bad night, 
debilitated, and my bones bruised by the 
planks, I was taken with a profuse perspira- 
tion. The visit came, the superintendent was 
not there: as that hour was inconvenient for 
him, he came somewhat later. 

I said to Schiller: " See how soaked I am 
with sweat ; it is already grown cold upon my 
body ; it will be necessary to change my shirt 
at once." 

"It cannot be," he exclaimed, in a brutal 
voice. But he secretly made a sign to me, 
with his eyes and his hand. When the cor- 
poral and guards went away, he turned round 
to make me another sign, as he shut the 
door. 

A little after he returned, bringing me one 
of his own shirts, twice the length of my 
body. 

"It will be rather long for you," said he: 
" but at present I have no other." 

"I thank you, my friend ; but as I brought 
to Spielberg a trunk full of linen, I hope I 
shall not be refused the use of my own shirts. 
Have the kindness to go and ask one of the 
superintendent." 

"It is not permitted, sir, to allow you any 
of your linen. Every Saturday you will be 
furnished one of the shirts of the establish- 
ment, like the other convicts." 

" Honest old man," said I, " you see in what 
a condition I am ; it is not probable that I 
shall ever leave this place alive : I shall never 
be able to reward you for your kindness." 

" For shame, sir, for shame !" he exclaimed. 
" Talk of reward to a man who cannot render 



62 



MY PRISONS. 



a service, who can scarcely lend in secret 
something to a sick man to dry his body drip- 
ping with sweat !" 

And hastily throwing his long shirt upon 
my back, he went off grumbling, and closed 
the door with a violent noise. 

About two hours after, he brought me a 
morsel of black bread. 

" This," said he, "is the allowance for two 
days." Then he commenced walking about, 
and scolding. 

"What is the matter?" I asked. "Are 
you angry with me? I have accepted the 
shirt you were so kind as to give me." 

" I am angry at the doctor, who, although 
it is Thursday, might have taken the trouble 
to come." 

" Patience !" I replied. 

I said patience ! but I could not rest in any 
position upon those planks, without even a 
pillow : all my bones ached. 

At eleven o'clock, a convict, accompanied 
by Schiller, brought my dinner. It was in 
two iron pots ; one containing some most de- 
testable soup, and the other vegetables, fixed 
up with such sauce that the odor alone ex- 
cited disgust. 

I tried to swallow a few spoonfuls of soup, 
but it was impossible. 

Schiller kept repeating: "Take courage; 
try to get accustomed to that food; otherwise 
it will happen to you as it has already hap- 
pened to others, to eat only a little bread, and 
to die afterwards of languor." 

Friday morning, Doctor Bayer came at last. 
He found me with some fever, ordered for me 
a straw bed, and insisted that I should be 
taken from my dungeon and transferred to an 
upper story. It could not be done ; there was 
no place vacant. But a report being made to 
Count Mitrowski, governor of the two provin- 
ces of Moravia and Silesia, residing at Britnn, 
he replied that, considering the serious nature 
of my sickness, the order of the physician 
should be followed. 

A little light penetrated into the room they 
had given me; and by clinging to the bars of 
the narrow window, I saw the valley below, 
part of the city of Briinn, a suburb with nu- 
merous little gardens, the cemetery, the little 



lake of Chartruse, and the woody hills which 
separated us from the famous fields of Aus- 
terlitz. 

The view enchanted me. Oh ! how happy 
should I have been, if I could have enjoyed it 
with Maroncelli ! 



CHAPTER LXII. 

In the meantime they were making our 
prison clothes. I had mine at the end of five 
days. 

They consisted of a pair of pantaloons of 
coarse cloth, the right side of a grey color, and 
the left of a dingy brown ; a close jacket of 
two colors, disposed in the same manner; and 
a waistcoat with the same two colors reversed, 
that is, the brown on the right side, and the 
grey on the left. The stockings were of 
coarse wool; the shirt of tow-cloth, full of 
shives, real sackcloth. For the neck, a cravat 
of the same stuff as the shirt. The boots 
were of uncolored leather, and laced; the hat 
was white. 

To complete this livery, we had irons upon 
the feet, that is, a chain from one leg to the 
other, the rings of which were fastened with 
nails riveted upon an anvil. The workman 
who performed this operation for me, thinking 
that I did not understand German, said to one 
of the guards : " Sick as he is, they might 
have spared him this sport ; two months will 
not pass before the angel of death will come 
to deliver him." 

" Mochte es seyn ! Be it so !" said I, slap- 
ping him upon the shoulder with my hand. 

The poor man started, and was confused ; 
then he added : 

" I hope I may not be a prophet, and wish 
that you may be delivered by a very different 
angel." 

" Rather than live so," I replied, " does it 
not seem to you that even the angel of death 
would be welcome ?" 

He nodded in the affirmative, and went 
away commiserating my lot. 



MY PRISONS. 



63 



In truth, I would have voluntarily ceased 
to live, but had no temptation to suicide; I 
trusted that the weakness of my lungs would 
be such as to despatch me in a short time. 
God did not wish it. The fatigue of the 
journey had done me much harm, but repose 
brought me some relief. 

A minute after the workman went out, I 
heard the hammer sounding upon the anvil 
in the underground room. Schiller was still 
in my chamber. 

" Hear those blows," said I ; " surely they 
are putting the irons on poor Maroncelli." 

As I uttered these words, my heart was so 
wrung that I staggered, and should have 
fallen if the good old man had not supported 
me. For more than half an hour I was in a 
state resembling a swoon, yet it was not one. 
I could not speak ; my pulse scarcely beat ; a 
cold sweat inundated me from head to foot ; 
and notwithstanding this, I heard all that 
Schiller said, and had a most vivid recollection 
of the past, and perception of the present. 

The order of the superintendent and the 
vigilance of the guards had hitherto preserved 
silence in all the neighboring prisons. Three 
or four times I had heard some Italian air 
sung, which was immediately suppressed by 
the cries of the sentinels. We had many of 
the latter stationed upon the terrace under 
our windows, and one even within our corri- 
dor, who went round continually, listening at 
the doors, and looking through the wickets, 
to prevent noise. 

One day towards evening (every time I 
think of it I feel anew the palpitations which 
I then experienced), the sentinels, by a lucky 
chance, were less attentive, and I heard in the 
prison adjacent to mine a song struck up and 
continued in a low but clear voice. 

Oh, what joy, what emotion seized upon 
me ! I rose from my bed, listened, and when 
the voice ceased I involuntarily burst into 
tears. 

" Who art thou, unhappy ?" I exclaimed. 
" Who art thou ? Tell me thy name. I am 
Silvio Pellico." 

" Oh, Silvio !" answered my neighbor; "I 
have no personal acquaintance with you, but 
I have loved you for a long time. Come 



close to your window, and let us talk in spite 
of the watch." 

I climbed to the window, when he told me 
his name, and we exchanged some words of 
tenderness. 

It was Count Antonio Oroboni, a native of 
Fratta, near Rovigo, a young man of twenty- 
nine years. 

Alas ! we were soon interrupted by the 
menacing shouts of the sentinels. That of the 
corridor knocked loudly with the butt of his 
musket, sometimes at my door and sometimes 
at that of Orobino. We would not, we could 
not obey; yet the imprecations of the guards 
were such that we ceased, promising to renew 
the conversation when the sentinels were 
changed. 



CHAPTER LXIII. 

We hoped — what in fact happened — that 
by speaking more softly, we might .still hear 
each other, and that we might sometimes fall 
in with compassionate sentinels, who would 
pretend not to notice our conversation. By 
dint of experiment we learned to emit a sound 
so low that it was perceptible to our ears, yet 
escaped others, or else afforded a pretext for 
dissembling. It happened, indeed, now and 
then, that we had listeners of a quicker hear- 
ing, or that we forgot to moderate the sound 
of our voices ; then the cries and the knock- 
ings upon our doors were renewed, and, what 
was worse, the anger of poor Schiller and the 
superintendent. 

By degrees we perfected all our measures 
of precaution, which were, to speak at certain 
times in preference to others, during the 
watch of certain guards rather than that of 
others, and always in a very well moderated 
voice. Whether it was the perfection of our 
art, or in others the habit of complaisance 
which they insensibly acquired, we succeeded 
in being able to converse enough every day, 
without affording, scarcely ever, an occasion 
for a chief to scold us. 
We leagued ourselves in a tender friend- 



84 



MY PRISONS. 



ship. He narrated lo me the story of his life, 
and I narrated mine to him. The anguish 
and consolations of one became the anguish 
and consolations of the other. Oh, what 
comfort did we mutually impart ! How many 
I times, after a sleepless night, did each of us, 
! going to his window in the morning, and sa- 
luting his friend and hearing his dear words, 
| feel the sadness alleviated and courage re- 
j vived in his heart ! Each was conscious of 
j being useful to the other, and this certainty 
awoke in our thoughts a generous strife of 
amiability, and that satisfaction which a man 
experiences, even in misery, when he can 
render aid to his fellow. 

Each conversation left behind it the desire 
to renew it, and called for further explana- 
tions; it was a lively and perpetual stimulus 
to the understanding, the imagination, the 
memory, and the heart. 

In the commencement, from the recollection 
of Julian, I distrusted the constancy of this 
new friend. Hitherto, thought I, no disagree- 
ment of opinion has occurred ; but some day 
or other I may displease him in something, 
and then he will abandon me. 

This suspicion soon vanished. Our opinions 
accorded in all essential points; except that, 
to a noble soul, burning with generous feel- 
ings, and superior to adversity, he added the 
most entire and candid faith in Christianity, 
whilst mine had been for some time waver- 
ing, and at times it appeared quite extinct. 

He combated my doubts with the justest 
reflections, and in the most affectionate man- 
ner. I felt that he was right, and acknow- 
ledged it; ■'but my doubts returned. This 
happens to all those who have not the Gospel 
in their hearts, to all who hate others, and 
who are proud of themselves. The mind sees 
the truth for an instant ; but as truth does not 
please it, it disbelieves it the next instant, and 
forces itself to look another way. Oroboni 
had great power in turning my attention to 
the motives which should influence a man to 
be indulgent towards his enemies. I could 
speak to him of nobody that 1 hated, whom 
he did not undertake skilfully to defend, not 
only by words but by examples. Many per- 
sons had injured him, he groaned under it, 



but forgave all, and if he could tell me some 
laudable trait of any of them, he did it will- 
ingly- 

The irritation to which I was subject, and 
which had made me irreligious ever since my 
condemnation, lasted several weeks; then 
ceased altogether. The virtue of Oroboni had 
charmed me. In endeavoring to reach him, 
I put myself at least upon his footsteps. 
When I was again able to pray for all men, 
and no longer hate any one, my doubts in 
regard to faith disappeared. Ubi charitas et 
amor Deus ibi est. Where love and charity 
are, there is God. 



CHAPTER LXIV. 

To tell the truth, if our punishment was 
very severe and calculated to irritate, we had 
at the same time the rare good fortune of 
seeing only good people around us. They 
could alleviate our lot only by kind and re- 
spectful attentions; but these were rendered 
by all. If there was some roughness in old 
Schiller, how fully was it compensated by the 
nobleness of his heart ! Even the wretched 
Kunda (the convict who brought us our dinner, 
and also water three times a day) wished to 
testify his compassion for us. He swept our 
rooms twice a week. One morning while 
sweeping, he seized the moment when Schil- 
ler was two or three steps from the door, to 
offer me a piece of white bread. I did not 
accept it, but cordially pressed his hand. This 
pressure moved him : he said to me in bad 
German (he was a Pole) : " they give you so 
little to eat, sir, that surely you must suffer 
from hunger." 

I assured him to the contrary, but that 
assurance was incredible. 

The physician, seeing that none of us could 
eat the quality of food afforded us during the 
first days, put us upon what was called quarter 
rations, that is, the regimen of the hospital. 
It consisted of three small dishes of very thin 
soup per day, a little bit of roast lamb that 



MY PRISONS. 



65 



might be swallowed at a mouthful, and per- 
haps three ounces of white bread. As my 
health grew stronger, my appetite increased, 
and that quarter was really too little. I tried 
to come back to the diet of those in health, 
but nothing was to be gained; it disgusted 
i me to such a degree that I could not eat it. I 
was absolutely obliged to confine myself to 
the quarter. For more than a year I knew 
what was the torment of hunger. And that 
torment was suffered in even greater violence 
by some of my companions, who, more robust 
than myself, were accustomed to more liberal 
nourishment. I know from some of them 
that they accepted bread from Schiller and 
the two guards attached to our service, and 
even from that good fellow Kunda. 

" They say in the city, that these gentle- 
men get very little to eat," said the barber to 
me one day, a young man, the apprentice of 
our surgeon. 

" It is too true," said I frankly. 

On the following Saturday (he came every 
Saturday) he wanted to give me, in secret, 
quite a large loaf of white bread. Schiller 
feigned not to notice this offer. If I had 
listened to my stomach I should have accept- 
ed it, but I was firm in my refusal, that the 
poor youth might not be tempted to repeat 
his present, which might at length be charged 
upon him. 

For the same reasons I refused the offers of 
Schiller. Many a time has he brought me a 
piece of boiled meat, and begged me to eat it, 
protesting that it cost him nothing ; that it 
was the remains of his dinner, that he did not 
know what to do with it, that he should give 
it to some of the others if I did not take it. I 
would have willingly fallen upon and de- 
voured it ; but if I did so, would not Schiller 
want to give me something every day ? 

Twice only did I yield; once when he 
brought me a plate of cherries, and another 
time some pears; the sight of these fruits 
irresistibly fascinated me. I was sorry I ac- 
cepted them, merely because he afterwards 
did not cease to offer them. 



CHAPTER LXV. 

It had been established from the first that 
each of us should have an hour to walk, twice 
a week." Afterwards this relief was granted 
every other day, and still later, every day, 
except festivals. 

Each one was taken to walk separately, 
between two guards, with muskets on their 
shoulders. Having my lodging at the head 
of the passage I passed, in my way out, the 
rooms of all the Italian prisoners of state, 
except that of Maroncelli, who alone lan- 
guished below. 

"Pleasant walk!" they all murmured 
through the wickets of their doors, but I was 
not permitted to stop to salute any one. 

We descended a stairway, crossed a large 
court, and came upon a terrace lying to the 
south, whence could be seen the city of Brtinn, 
and a great extent of the surrounding country. 

In the court above mentioned were always 
many convicts of the common sort, who went 
to and from their labors or promenaded in 
groups conversing. Among them were many 
Italian thieves who saluted me with much 
respect, and said among themselves : "He is 
not such a rascal as we are, yet his captivity 
is much more severe than ours." 

They enjoyed in fact much more freedom 
than I did. I heard these and many other 
expressions, and cordially saluted them in 
return. 

On one occasion one of them said to me : 
" Your salutation does me good. You can 
perhaps discover something in my counte- 
nance that is not villainy. An unhappy pas- 
sion led me to commit a crime; but, no, 
Signor, I am not a villain !" 

He burst into tears. I stretched out my 
hand to him, but he could not press it. The 
guards repulsed him, not from ill-nature, but 
in obedience to their orders. They were to 
let no one approach me, whoever he might be. 
The remarks which the convicts addressed to 
me they generally pretended to speak among 
themselves, and if my two guards perceived 
that they were intended for my ear, they im- 
posed silence. 

Persons of various conditions, who were 



66 



MY PRISONS. 



strangers at the castle, also passed through 
this court, coming to visit the superintendent, 
the chaplain, the sergeant, or one of the cor- 
porals. " There's one of the Italians," said 
they in a low voice, and stopped to look at 
me ; and many times I heard them say in 
German, thinking I did not understand it: 
" That poor gentleman will never reach old 
age; he has death in his countenance." 

In truth, though my health had been at 
first much improved, I languished for lack of 
nourishment, and again was frequently at- 
tacked by fever. With difficulty I dragged 
my chain as far as the place of our prome- 
nade ; and when there, 1 threw myself upon 
the grass, where I generally remained until 
my hour was expired. 

My guards remained standing, or sat down 
by me to~talk. One of them, named Krai, 
was a Bohemian, who, though belonging to a 
family of poor peasants, had received a certain 
degree of education, and had improved him- 
self as much as he was able by reflecting 
with much discrimination upon the things of 
the world, and by reading all the books that 
he could lay his hands upon. He was ac- 
quainted with Klopstock, Wieland, Goethe, 
Schiller, and many other good German au- 
thors. He knew a great many extracts from 
them by heart, and recited them w T ith intelli- 
gence and feeling. The other guard was a 
Pole, of the name of Kubitzky, ignorant, but 
respectful and cordial. Their company was 
dear to me. 



CHAPTER LXVI. 

At one of the extremities of the terrace 
were the apartments of the superintendent ; 
at the other, lived a corporal with his wife 
and young child. When I saw any one com- 
ing out of these dwellings I arose and ad- 
vanced to meet the person or persons who 
came forth, by whom I was loaded with 
marks of courtesy and compassion. 

The superintendent's wife had been sick 



for a long time and was dying slowly. Some- 
times, at her request, she was brought out 
into the open air upon a sofa. I am unable 
to describe how deeply affected she was in 
expressing to me the compassion she felt for 
us all. Her look was singularly sweet and 
timid, nevertheless it was from time to time 
fixed with an intense, inquiring confidence, 
upon the eyes of him who spoke to her. 

I said to her one day with a smile: "Bo 
you know, madam, that you somewhat re- 
semble a person once dear to me ?" 

She blushed, and replied with a serious and 
amiable simplicity : "Do not forget me then 
when I am dead ; pray for my poor soul, and 
for the little children I leave on the earth." 

From that day she was unable to leave her 
bed, and I never saw her more. After lan- 
guishing several months she died. 

She had three sons, pretty as little loves, 
and another one at the breast. Often the un- 
fortunate lady had embraced them in my pre- 
sence, and said , "Who knows who will be 
their mother after I am gone ? Whoever she 
may be, may the Lord give her the bowels of 
a mother, even for children not her own !" 
And she wept. 

A thousand times have I recalled her prayer 
and her tears. 

When she was no more, I sometimes em- 
braced those children, and, with tender emo- 
tion, repeated that maternal prayer. And I 
thought of my own mother, of the ardent 
wishes her affectionate heart was doubtless 
forming for me, and with sobs I exclaimed : 
" Oh happier far is that mother, who, in 
dying, left her children infants, than she who, 
after rearing them with infinite care, sees 
them dragged away from her." 

Two excellent women of advanced age 
customarily attended the children : one of 
whom was the mother of the superintendent, 
and the other his aunt. They desired to know 
all my history, and I briefly related it to them. 

" How unhappy we are," said they with an 
expression of the most sincere sorrow, " that 
we are unable to afford you any relief! But 
be assured that we will pray for you, and if 
one day your pardon comes, it will be a festi- 
val for all our family." 



MY PRISONS. 



67 



The former, whom I saw most frequently, 
possessed a sweet and admirable eloquence, in 
imparting consolation. I listened to it with 
filial gratitude, and her words were engraved 
upon my heart. 

She spoke things that I knew already, yet 

! they struck me as if they had been new : 

! " That misfortune does not degrade a man 

| unless he is a coward, but rather elevates 

him ; that if we could penetrate the counsels 

of God, we should find conquerors much more 

to be pitied than the conquered, the gay than 

the afflicted, the rich than the poor, despoiled 

of their all ;— that the special regard testified 

by the Son of God for the unfortunate is an 

important lesson ;— that we ought to glory in 

the cross, since it has been borne by divine 

shoulders." 

Alas ! these two good old ladies that I saw 
with so much pleasure, were soon obliged, for 
family reasons, to leave Spielberg; the child- 
ren also ceased to appear upon the terrace. 
How much these losses afflicted me ! 



CHAPTER LXVIL 



The uneasiness caused by the chain upon 
my feet, by depriving me of sleep, contributed 
to ruin my health. Schiller wished me to com- 
plain, and pretended that it was the physi- 
cian's duty to cause it to be taken off. 

I did not listen to him for some time, but at 
length J yielded to his counsel, and told the 
physician that, to recover the benefit of sleep, 
I begged him to remove my chain, at least for 
a few days. 

The physician replied, that my fever had 
not reached such a point as to justify him in 
complying with my request, and that I must 
accustom myself to irons. 

The reply offended me, and I was vexed at 
having made a useless request. 

" See what I have gained by following 
your obstinate advice," said I to Schiller. 

I must have spoken these words quite 
sharply, for the rude, yet good old man, took 
offence at them. 



" You are vexed at having exposed yourself 
to a refusal," he said, " and I am hurt that 
you take a proud tone towards me." 

Then he proceeded to preach me a long 
sermon : " The proud make their importance 
consist in not exposing themselves to a refusal, 
in not accepting offers, in blushing at a thou- 
sand follies. Alle eseleyen ! (All nonsense) 
Vain greatness ! Ignorance of true dignity ! 
True dignity consists mostly in feeling asham- 
ed only of bad actions !" 

He spoke, and went away, making an infer- 
nal clatter with his keys. 

I remained confounded. " And yet," said 
I, " this blunt sincerity pleases me. It comes 
from the heart like his offers, like his advice, 
like his sympathy. And has he not told me 
the truth ? To how many weaknesses do I 
not give the name of dignity, when, in fact, 
they are nothing but pride ? 

At the hour of dinner, Schiller let the con- 
vict Kunda bring in the small pots and the 
water while he stopped at the door. I called 
him. 

" I have not time," answered he dryly. 
I left my bed, went to him and said : " If 
you wish my dinner to do me any good, do 
not make me such an ugly face." 

" What face must I make ?" said he, clear- 
ing up. 

" That of a cheerful man, of a friend," I 
replied. 

"Hurra for joy!" he exclaimed. " And if 
you want to see me dance, that your dinner 
may do you good, I am at your service." 
And he began to gambol so comically with 
his long thin legs, that I burst into a laugh. 
I laughed, yet my heart was deeply touched. 



CHAPTER LXVIII. 

One evening, that Oroboni and myself were 
standing at our windows, condoling with each 
other, and saying how hungry we were, we 
elevated our voices a little, and the sentinels 
screamed at us. The superintendent, who, 



unluckily, was passing that way, considered 
ii his duty to send for Schiller and reprimand 
him severely because he was not more watch- 
ful to make us keep silence. Schiller came 
in great wrath to complain to me, and en- 
joined me not to speak any more from my 
window. He wanted me to promise him. 

" No," I replied, " I will not promise." 

" Oh, derteuf 'el ! der teufel !" he exclaimed, 
" to say to me, ' I will not !' to me who have 
just received this cursed reprimand on your 
account !" 

" I am sorry, my dear Schiller, for the rep- 
rimand you have received, I am really sorry; 
but I do not like to promise what I feel I shall 
not perform." 

" And why not perform it?" 

" Because I cannot ; because perpetual 
I solitude is for me so cruel a torment, that I 
| shall never resist the necessity of letting 
J some words escape from my breast/and invit- 
ing my neighbor to answer me. And if my 
neighbor should remain silent, I would ad- 
dress my words to the bars of my window, 
to the hills before me, to the birds that fly in 
the air." 

"Der teufel ! and you will not promise ?" 

" No, no, no !" I exclaimed. 

He threw down his clattering bunch of 
keys and repeated, " der teufel ! der teufel /" 
then, embracing me, he exclaimed : " Must I 
cease to be a man on account of those vile 
keys ? You are a man of the right sort, and 
I am glad that you are not willing to make 
a promise that you will not keep. I would 
do the same." 

I picked up his keys and gave them to him. 

" These keys," said I, " are not so vile, 
since they cannot turn an honest corporal like 
you, into an unfeeling sbirro." 

"If. I thought they could do it," he an- 
swered, " I would carry them to my superiors 
and tell them : ' If you are willing to give 
me no bread but that of the executioner, I 
will go and beg.' " 

He drew his handkerchief from his pocket, 
wiped his eyes, then elevated them, joining 
his hands in the attitude of prayer. I 
clasped my own likewise, and offered a 
prayer in 3ilence. He comprehended that I 



prayed for him, and I knew that he did the 
same for me. 

In going out, he said to me in a low voice : 
" When you talk with Count Oroboni, speak 
as low as possible. You will do two good 
things at the same time : spare me the repri- 
mands of the superintendent, and prevent 

the overhearing some remarks, perhaps 

shall I say it? remarks, which, if reported, 
would irritate still more him who can punish." 

I assured him that no word should ever 
escape our lips, which could offend, no mat- 
ter to whom it were reported. 

We had, in fact, no need of advice to be on 
our guard. Two prisoners who effect a com- 
munication with each other, know very well 
how to invent a jargon in which they speak 
everything, without being understood by any 
listener whatever. 



CHAPTER LXIX. 

I returned from my walk one morning; 
it was the seventh of August. The door of 
Oroboni's room was open, and Schiller, who 
was within, did not hear me coming. My 
guards wished to advance a step to shut the 
door, but I anticipated them, threw myself 
forward, and found myself in the arms of 
Oroboni. 

Schiller was confounded : " Der teufel, der 
teufel!" he exclaimed, and raised his finger to 
threaten me. But his eyes filled with tears, 
and he said, sobbing : " my God, take pity 
upon these poor young men, and me, and all 
the unhappy, thou who wast so unhappy 
upon earth !" 

The two guards wept. The sentinel of the 
corridor ran thither and wept also. Oroboni 
said to me: "Silvio, Silvio, this day is one 
of the happiest of my life !" I know not 
what I said in reply; I was beside myself 
with joy and tenderness. 

When Schiller conjured us to separate, and 
we were obliged to obey him, Oroboni, burst- 
ing into a flood of tears, said to me : " Shall 
we ever meet again in this world ?" 



MY PRISONS. 



69 



And I never saw him again ! A few 
months afterwards his room was vacant, and 
Oroboni reposed in the cemetery that stretched 
before my window ! 

Since our interview of a moment, it ap- 
peared that our friendship was still more 
tender, more ardent than before; that we had 
become ro,ore necessary to each other. 

Oroboni was an elegant young man, of a 
noble exterior, but pale and in wretched 
health. His eyes alone were full of life. My 
affection for him was increased by the pity 
with which his leanness and paleness inspired 
me. He had the same feeling for me. We 
both saw how probable it was, that one of 
us would soon be the unhappy survivor of the 
other. 

A few days after, he was taken sick. I 
did nothing but groan and pray for him. 
After many returns of fever, he recovered a 
little strength, and was able to return to our 
sweet conversations. Oh, how consoling it 
was to me, to hear again the sound of his 
voice. 

"Do not deceive yourself," said he to me. 
" It will last but a short time. Have the 
strength to prepare yourself for my loss; m- 
1 spire me with courage by your own." 

Just at this time they wanted to give a 
coating of white to the walls of our prisons, 
and in the meantime we had to go into sub- 
terranean cells. Unluckily,. we were not put 
in contiguous rooms. Schiller told me that 
Oroboni was well, but I suspected he did not 
like to tell me the truth, and feared that his 
health, already so feeble, would become 
worse by confinement in a dungeon. 

Would that I had had, at least, the good for- 
tune on that occasion to be near my dear Mar- 
oncelli ! I, however, heard his voice. We 
saluted each other in singing, in spite of the 
cries of the guards. 

At this time the first physician of Brunn 
came to visit us, probably sent in consequence 
of reports which the superintendent had for- 
warded to Vienna, upon the extreme feeble- 
ness to which so great a scarcity of food had 
reduced us all, or because an epidemic scurvy 
prevailed in the prisons at that time. 

Ignorant of the cause of this visit, I im- 



agined it was on account of a new complaint 
of Oroboni. The fear of losing him gave me 
inexpressible uneasiness. I was then seized 
with a profound melancholy and the desire 
to die. The idea of suicide returned. I 
combated it; but I was like an exhausted 
traveller, who, while saying to himself, " It 
is my duty to go on to the end," feels an irre- 
sistible desire to throw himself on the ground 
and rest. 

I had been told, that recently, in one of 
those dark dens, an old Bohemian had put an 
end to his life by dashing his head against 
the wall. I could not chase from my mind 
the temptation to imitate him. I do not 
know but my delirium would have come to 
that, if a hemorrhage of blood from the 
breast had not made me believe that my 
death was near. I thanked God that it was 
his will to take me away in that manner, 
sparing rne an act of despair which my 
reason condemned. 

But God, on the contrary, wished to pre- 
serve me. That spitting of blood alleviated 
my troubles. In the meantime I .was re- 
moved to my room above, where the clear 
light and the regained neighborhood of 
Oroboni re-attached me to life. 



CHAPTER LXX. 

I confided to him the dreadful melancholy I 
that I had experienced when separated from | 
him ; and he told me that he, likewise, had I 
been obliged to combat the thought of suicide. | 

" Let us take advantage," said he, " of the 
little time again afforded us, to strengthen each j 
other with the consolations of religion. Let 
us speak of God : let us incite one another to 
love him ; let us remember that he is justice, | 
wisdom, goodness, beauty, that he is every- 
thing that we admire of highest excellence. 
I tell you in truth, that death is not far from 
me. I shall be eternally grateful to you, if 
you contribute to make me as pious in my 
last days, as I ought to have been all my life." 



MY PRISONS. 



And henceforth our conversations dwelt 
only upon Christian philosophy, and the con- 
trast it offers to the poverty of the doctrine of 
the sensualist. We both rejoiced in discov- 
ering so great a conformity between Chris- 
tianity and reason; both, in comparing the 
various evangelical communions, saw that the 
Catholic only could truly stand the test of 
criticism, and that its doctrine was composed 
of the purest principles and the soundest 
morals, and not of the miserable conceptions 
of human ignorance. 

" And if, by some chance little to be ex- 
pected, we should return into society," said 
Oroboni, " should we be so cowardly as not 
to confess our belief in the Gospel ? As to 
take umbrage, if any one imagines that a 
prison has enfeebled our minds, and that by 
that weakness we had become less firm in 
the faith ? 

"My dear Oroboni," I replied, "your ques- 
tion reveals your answer, which is also mine. 
The height of cowardice is to be the slave of 
the opinions of others, when we are persuaded 
that they are false. I do not believe that 
either you or myself could ever be guilty of 
such cowardice." 

Among these outpourings of the heart I 
committed a fault I had sworn to Julian 
that I would never, by revealing his real 
name, confide to any one the relations that 
had existed between us. I imparted them to 
Oroboni, saying to him: "In the world, a 
thing of this sort should never escape my lips, 
but here we are in a tomb, and even if you 
should ever leave it, I know that I can trust 
you." 

That most honorable soul was silent. 

" Why do you not answer me ?" I asked. 

At length he began to censure me for 
having betrayed the secret. His reproof was 
just. No friendship, however intimate it may 
be, and however fortified by virtue, can justify 
such a violation of confidence. 

But since my fault was committed, Oro- 
boni derived from it some good fcr me. He 
had been acquainted with Julian, and he 
j knew many honorable acts of his life. He 
related them to me, and said: "This man 
' has so often acted like a Christian, that he 



cannot carry his anti-religious fury to the 
grave. Let us hope so. And you, Silvio, take 
care to forgive his ill-humor from your heart 
and pray for him." 

These words were sacred for me. 



CHAPTER LXXI. 

The conversations of which I speak, some 
times with Oroboni, and sometimes with 
Schiller or others, occupied, after all, but a 
small portion of the long twenty-four hours 
of my day, and very often it happened that 
all conversation with the former was impos- 
sible. 

What did I do in so great a solitude ? 

My time, during those days, passed in the 
following manner : I rose always at day-break, 
and jumping on the head of my bed, I climbed 
upon the bars of my window and performed 
my devotions. Oroboni was already at his 
window, or was not slow in coming. After a 
mutual salutation, each continued to raise his 
thoughts to God in silence. Horrible as were 
our prisons, so much more beautiful was the 
spectacle spread out before us. That heaven, 
that landscape, the far-off moving of living 
creatures in the valley, the voices of the 
young villagers, the laugh, the song, exhila- 
rated us, and made us feel more dearly the 
presence of Him, who is so magnificent in 
his goodness, and whose aid was so needful 
to us. 

Then came the morning visit of the guards. 
They threw a glance around the room, to see 
that all was in order, and examined my chain 
ring by ring, to assure themselves that it had 
not been broken by accident or design ; or 
rather (for to break it was impossible) they 
made this inspection, to obey faithfully the 
rules of discipline. If it was the day for the 
doctor's visit, Schiller asked if I wished to 
speak to him, and made a memorandum of 
it. 

The tour of our prisons being finished, 
Schiller returned, accompanied by Kunda, 
whose duty it was to clean our rooms. 



MY PRISONS. 



After a brief interval, they brought us our 
breakfast. It consisted of half a pot of a 
reddish broth, with three very thin slices of 
bread. I ate the bread, but the broth 1 could 
not swallow. 

Then I disposed myself to study. Maron- 
celli had brought many books from Italy, and 
all our companions likewise had brought more 
or less. They formed, altogether, an excel- 
lent little library. We hoped, moreover, to 
be able, by means of our money, to increase 
it. We had asked permission of the Empe- 
ror to read our books and purchase new ones; 
no answer had yet been received ; but, in the 
mean while, the governor of Briinn granted 
us, provisionally, the privilege of having each 
two books at a time, and of changing them 
as often as we wished. At nine o'clock, the 
superintend ent came, and if the physician 
was wanted, he accompanied him. 

After this, another space of time remained 
for study, till eleven, which was the hour for 
dinner. 

Thefe was no other visit till sunset, and I 
resumed my studies. At that time, Schiller 
and Kunda came to change the water, and an 
instant after, the superintendent appeared 
with some guards, to make the evening in- 
spection, which extended to every part of my 
room and my irons. 

For one hour per day, either before or after 
dinner, according to the pleasure of the 
guards, we took our walk. 

After the visit of the evening, just men- 
tioned, Oroboni and I disposed ourselves to 
talk, and these were usually our longest con- 
versations. They sometimes occurred in ihe 
morning, or immediately after dinner, but the 
latter were for the most part very short. 

Sometimes the sentinels were compassion- 
ate enough to say to us ; " A little lower, 
gentlemen ; otherwise the punishment will 
fall on us." 

At other times, they feigned not to notice 
that we were talking ; then, seeing the ser- 
geant coming, they begged us to keep still 
until he had passed, which he had scarcely 
done, when they said to us : " You can go on 
now, gentlemen, but as low as possible." 

Some of the soldiers would now and then 



have the boldness to take part in the conver , 
sation, to satisfy our inquiries, and give us ! 
some news from Italy. 

To certain remarks, we made no reply, ex- 
cept to beg them to be silent. It was natural 
for us to doubt whether their words were 
always the expressions of sincere hearts, or 
an artifice to pry into our minds. Neverthe- 
less, I am rather inclined to believe that they 
spoke with sincerity. 



CHAPTER LXXII. 

One evening, we had very indulgent senti- 
nels, when Oroboni and myself did not take 
the trouble to moderate our voices; Maron- 
celli, having climbed upon the window of his 
subterranean cell, heard us and distinguished 
my voice. He was not able to contain him- 
self, but saluted me in singing. He inquired 
how I was, and expressed, in the tenderest 
terms, his regret at not having been able to 
obtain permission for us to room together. I 
had also requested this favor, but neither the 
superintendent of Spielberg nor the governor 
of Briinn had the power to grant it. Our 
mutual desire had been transmitted to the 
Emperor, and no answer had, up to that time, 
been received. 

Besides the time that we had saluted each 
other in singing, in the rooms below, I had 
many times heard his songs in the upper 
story, but without distinguishing the words ; 
and then, only a few moments, because he 
was not allowed to proceed. 

Now he elevated his voice to a much higher 
tone, and not being so soon interrupted, I un- 
derstood all. No language can express the 
emotions that I then experienced. 

I answered him, and we continued our dia- 
logue about a quarter of an hour. At length, 
the sentinels upon the terrace were changed, 
and the new comers were not so complaisant. 
We attempted to resume our singing, but 
they assailed us with furious cries and curses, 
and we were obliged to resseet them. 



72 



MY PRISONS. 



1 pictured Maroncelli to myself, lying for 
so long a time in a cell much worse than 
mine ; I imagined the sadness into which he 
must often fall ; the injury which his health 
must suffer; and a profound anguish over- 
came me. 

At length, I was able to weep; but tears 
brought me no relief. I was taken with a 
severe head-ache and a violent fever. Una- 
ble any longer to stand, I threw myself on 
my bed. The convulsions increased ; my 
breast was racked with pains and horrible 
spasms: I thought that night would be my 
last. 

On the day following, the fever had ceased, 
and my breast was belter ; but my brain 
seemed to be on fire, and I could scarcely turn 
my head, without awakening cruel pains. 

I communicated my state to Oroboni. He 
also felt much worse than usual. 

" My friend," said he, " the day is not far 
distant, when one of us will no longer be able 
to come to the window. Each time that we 
salute each other may be the last. Let us 
both hold ourselves ready, either to die, or to 
survive a friend." 

His voice was agitated ; I could not reply. 
We were silent for a moment, then he re- 
sumed : 

"How happy you are to know German! 
You can at least enjoy the privilege of con- 
fession. I have asked for a priest who knew 
Italian ; I was told there was none. But God 
sees my desire, and in truth, since I confessed 
at Venice, I seem to have nothing that weighs 
upon my conscience." 

" I, on the contrary," I replied, " confessed 
at Venice, with my mind full of rancor, and 
did worse than if I had refused the sacra- 
ments. But if I am now allowed a priest, I 
assure you I will confess from my heart and 
forgive the whole world." 

" Heaven bless you !" he exclaimed ; " you 
give me great consolation. Let us do, yes, 
let us both do what is in our power to be 
eternally united in happiness, as we have 
been in these days of misfortune." 

The next day, I awaited him at the win- 
dow, but he came not. I learned from Schil- 
ler that he was seriously ill. 



Eight or ten days after, he was better and 
came again to salute me. I was suffering, 
but still able to support myself. Many 
months were thus passed by him, as well as 
myself, in these alternations of better and 
worse. 



CHAPTER LXXIII. 

I was able to drag myself about until the 
eleventh of January, 1823. I rose in the 
morning with a slight head-ache, and a dis- 
position to faint. My legs trembled, and my 
respiration was difficult. 

Oroboni had also been sick for two or three 
days, and had not risen. 

My soup was brought, of which I had 
scarcely tasted a spoonful, when I fell, de- 
prived of sensation. Some time after, the 
sentinel of the corridor looked, by chance, 
through the wicket, and seeing me lying 
prostrate on the ground, and the pot over- 
turned near me, he thought I was dead, and 
called Schiller. 

The superintendent came also; the physi- 
cian was immediately summoned, and I was 
put in bed. It was with difficulty I regained 
my consciousness. 

The physician said that my life was in 
danger, and had my irons taken off. He pre- 
scribed for me some cordial, I knownot what, j 
but my stomach could retain nothing. The 
pain in my head increased terribly. 

The governor was immediately informed 
of my illness, and he despatched a courier to | 
Vienna, to know how I was to be treated, j 
The reply was, not to place me in the infirm- i 
ary, but to serve me in prison with the same j 
care as if I were in the infirmary. Moreover, j 
the superintendent was authorized to furnish j 
me soup and broth from his kitchen, as long ! 
as the severity of my sickness continued. 

This last provision was at first useless ; no 
food or drink could be taken. My condition 
grew worse for a whole week, and I was in 
a raving delirium day and night. 



MY PRISONS. 



73 



Krai and Kuhilzky were given me for at- 
tendants; both of whom served me with 
affection. 

Every time that I came somewhat to my 
senses, Krai repeated to me : ''Put your trust 
in God ; God alone is good.' 1 

" Pray for me," said I, " not that he may- 
restore me to health, but that he may accept 
my sufferings and my death in expiation of 
my sins." 

He suggested that I should request the 
sacraments. 

"If I have not requested them," I replied, 
"attribute it to the weakness of my head; 
but it will be a great consolation to me to re- 
ceive them." 

Krai reported my words to the superin- 
tendent, who sent the chaplain of the prison 
to me. 

I confessed, received the communion, and 
then extreme unction. I was much pleased 
with this priest. His name was Sturm. The 
reflections he made upon the justice of God, 
the injustice of men, the duty of forgiveness, 
and the vanity of ail worldly things, were by 
no means common-place. They bore the 
impress of a noble and cultivated understand- 
ing, and of a warm feeling of real love 
towards God and cur neighbor. 



CHAPTER LXXIV. 

The effort of attention that I made, in order 
to receive the sacraments, seemed to exhaust 
| my remaining strength; but, instead of that, 
it was beneficial, by throwing me into a leth- 
argy of many hours, which gave me rest. 
I awoke a little relieved, and seeing Schil- 
i ler and Krai near me, I took their hands, and 
; thanked them for their care. 

Schiller said to me, " My eye is used to 
j seeing the sick; I would bet that you will 
| not die." 

" And do you not think," said I, " that 
you are making for me a sad prediction ?" 
" No," he replied ; " the miseries of life 



are great, it is true; but he who supports 
them with nobleness of soul, and with humil- 
ity, always gains by living." 

Afterwards, he added: "If you live, I hope 
you will, within a few days, have a great 
consolation. You have requested to see 
Signor Maroncelli ?" 

" I have begged it so many times in vain, 
that I no longer dare to hope for it ?" 

" Hope, hope, signor, and renew your re- 
quest." 

I renewed it, in fact, the same day. The 
superintendent likewise bade me hope, and 
added, that not only was it likely that Maron- 
celli could see me, but that he might even be 
given me as an attendant, and henceforth re- 
main my inseparable companion. 

As all the prisoners of state had their health 
more or less broken, the governor had asked 
permission from Vienna to put us two and 
two, so that one could be a support to the 
other. 

I had also begged the favor of writing a 
last adieu to - my family. 

Towards the end of the second week a 
crisis occurred in my malady, and the danger 
'disappeared. 

I was beginning to get up, when, one 
morning, my door opened, and I saw the 
superintendent, Schiller and the doctor enter 
in high spirits. The first ran up to me, and 
said : " We have permission to give you Ma- 
roncelli for a companion, and to let you write 
a letter to your relations." 

Joy took away my breath, and the poor 
superintendent, who, in the impetuosity of a 
good heart, had failed in prudence, believed 
me lost. 

When I recovered my senses, and recol- 
lected the announcement I had heard, I i 
begged them not to defer so great a blessing 
to me. The physician consented, and Maron- 
celli was conducted to my arms. 

Oh, what a moment was that ! " You are 
yet alive!" we both exclaimed. "Oh, my 
friend ! Oh, my brother ! What a happy 
day we are again permitted to see ! God be 
praised for it !" 

But to our joy, boundless as it was, there 
was joined a boundless compassion. Maron- 



74 



MY PRISONS. 



celli must have been less struck at finding 
me so broken : he knew what a severe illness 
I had just passed through. But I, even while 
thinking of what he must have suffered, had 
not imagined him so changed from what he 
was. I scarcely recognized him. That coun- 
tenance, formerly so handsome, so blooming, 
was wasted with suffering, with hunger, and 
the bad air of his gloomy dungeon. 

It was, nevertheless, a great comfort to 
see, to hear each other, and to be, at last, in- 
separably united. Oh, how many things we 
had to ^communicate, to recall, to repeat to 
one another ! What sweetness in weeping 
together! What harmdhy in all our ideas! 
What satisfaction to find ourselves agreeing 
on the subject of religion ; both hating ignor- 
ance and barbarity, yet hating no man, pity- 
ing the ignorant and cruel, and praying for 
them ! 



CHAPTER LXXV. 

A sheet of paper and an inkstand were 
brought to me, that I might write to my 
friends. 

As the permission had, strictly speaking, 
been given to a dying man, who wished to 
send his last farewell to his family, I feared 
that my letter would not be despatched if it 
contained anything else. I confined myself 
to entreating my parents, my brothers and 
sisters, with the most tender earnestness, to 
resign themselves to my lot, protesting to 
them that I was myself resigned to it. 

This letter was, nevertheless, sent, as I 
afterwards learned, when, after so many 
years, I revisited the paternal roof. It was 
the only one which my beloved parents were 
able to receive from me during the long pe- 
riod of my imprisonment. I never received 
any from them; those which they wrote to 
me were always stopped at Vienna. My 
companions in misfortune were likewise de- 
prived of intercourse with their families. 

We many times requested the favor of 



having at least paper and ink to pursue our 
studies, and of employing our money to pur- 
chase books. We were never listened to. 

The governor, nevertheless, continued to 
let us read our books. 

We were indebted to his kindness also for 
some improvement in our diet; but, alas ! it 
did not last long. He had consented that 
our food, instead of being prepared in the 
kitchen of the steward of the prisons, should 
be furnished from that of the superintendent. 
Some additional funds had been set apart by 
him for that purpose. These arrangements 
were not confirmed; but, as long as the favor 
lasted, I experienced great relief from it. 
Maroncelli also recovered a little strength. 
For the unfortunate Oroboni, it was too late ! 

The latter had had, at first, Solera, the 
advocate, for a companion, and afterwards the 
priest D. Fortini. 

When we were placed two and two in all 
the cells, the prohibition to speak from our 
windows was renewed, accompanied with 
the menace, that whoever dared to infringe 
it, should be again consigned to solitude. To 
tell the truth, we violated the prohibition 
sometimes by saluting each other ; but we 
never had any long conversations. 

The disposition of Maroncelli was in perfect 
harmony with my own. The courage of one 
sustained that of the other. If one of us fell 
into a fit of despondency, or of anger against 
the rigors of our situation, the other cheered 
him by some pleasantry or seasonable reflec- 
tions. A sweet smile almost always soothed 
our troubles. 

As long as we had books, although we had 
read them so often that we knew them by 
heart, they formed a sweet pasture for the 
mind, as they were ever the subject of new 
examinations, new comparisons, new judg- 
ments, and new corrections. We read or 
meditated a great part of the day in silence, 
and devoted the time of dinner, that of the 
promenade, and all the evening, to conversa- 
tion. 

Maroncelli, in his dungeon, had composed 
many verses of great beauty. He recited 
them to me, and composed others. I com- 
posed some likewise, and recited them to 



MY PRISONS. 



him, 3nd our memory was exercised to retain 
all. Wonderful was the facility which we 
acquired, of composing long poems by heart, 
of polishing and repolishing them a great num- 
ber of times, and of bringing them to the same 
degree of possible perfection that we could 
have done by writing them. In this manner, 
Maroacelli composed, little by little, and re- 
tained in memory many thousand verses, 
lyrical and epic. I composed the tragedy of 
Leoniero da Deriona, and various other 
things. 



CHAPTER LXXVI. 

Oroboni, after having suffered much during 
the winter and spring, became in summer 
still worse. He spit blood, and was affected 
with dropsy. 

I leave it to be imagined what was our 
affliction, when he was dying so near us, 
without our being able to break through that 
cruel wall which prevented us from seeing 
him, and giving him our friendly attentions ! 

Schiller brought us news of him. The 
unfortunate young man suffered dreadfully; 
but never lost his courage. He received 
spiritual aid from the chaplain, who, fortu- 
nately, knew French. 

He died on the 13th of June, 1823. Some 
hours before he expired, he spoke of his 
father, now eighty years old, was deeply 
affected, and wept. Afterwards he resumed, 
saying: "But why do I weep for the most 
fortunate of my friends, since he is on the 
eve of rejoining me in the abodes of eternal 
peace V 

His last words were : " I forgive my ene- 
mies from my heart.'" 

D. Fortini closed his eyes; he had been his 
friend from childhood, and was a man wholly 
devoted to religion and charity. 

Poor Oroboni ! What icy coldness ran 
through our veins when we were told he was 
no more ! And heard the voices and steps of 
those who came to take away his corpse ! 
And saw from our window the cart that bore 
it to the grave-yard ! The cart was drawn 



by two common convicts; four guards fol- 
lowed it. We accompanied the sad convoy 
with our eyes as far as the cemetery. It en- 
tered the" enclosure, and stopped in one cor- 
ner : there was the grave ! 

A few minutes after, the cart, the convicts, 
and guards returned : one of the latter was 
Kubitsky. He said to me (a noble thought, 
surprising in so coarse a man) : " I have* 
marked with precision the place of burial, in 
order that, if any relative or friend should one 
day obtain permission to take up the bones 
and carry them to his own country, it may be 
known where they lie." 

How many times Oroboni had said to me, 
looking at the cemetery from his window : 
" I must habituate myself to the idea of going 
to rot yonder; yet I confess that that idea 
makes me shudder. It seems to me that one 
is not so well off buried in this country, as in 
our own dear peninsula." 

Then he laughed, and said : " Childish no- 
tions ! When a garment is worn out, and 
has to be laid aside, what matters it where it 
is thrown ?" 

At other times, he used to say: "I am pre- 
paring for death ; but I should resign myself 
to it more willingly, on one condition : to 
enter, for a moment, under the paternal roof; 
to embrace the knees of my father; to hear | 
one word of benediction, and to die !" 

He sighed, and added : " If this cup cannot 
pass from me, rny God, thy will be 
done !" . 

The last morning of his life, he still said, 
kissing a crucifix that Krai presented to him: 
" Thou who wast a God, hadst nevertheless 
a horror of death, and saidst : If it be possi- 
ble, let litis cup pass from me ! Pardon me 
if I say it also. But I repeat, too, thine other 
words : ' Nevertheless, not as I willy but as 
thou toilt: " 



CHAPTER LXXVII. 

After the death of Oroboni, I again fell 
sick. I believed I should soon go to rejoin my 
deceased friend ; and I desired it. Yet could 



76 



MY PRISONS. 



I have separated from Maroncelli without 
regret ? 

Many a time, whilst he, seated upon his 
bed, read or composed verses, or, perhaps, 
feigned, like myself, to be occupied with such 
studies, yet was meditating upon our misfor- 
tunes, I looked at him sorrowfully, and said 
to myself: " How much more sad will be 
thy life when the breath of death shall have 
touched me ; when thou shalt see me*borne 
away from this chamber; when, gazing at the 
cemetery, thou shalt say ; ' Silvio, too, is 
there !' " I was touched at the lot of the 
wretched survivor; and put up prayers that 
they might give him another companion, 
capable of appreciating him as I did. or that 
the Lord would prolong my torments, and 
leave me the sweet office of soothing those of 
this unfortunate, by sharing them. 

I mention not how many times my mala- 
dies went and returned. The assistance that 
Maroncelli rendered me during their continu- 
ance was that of a most tender brother. He 
perceived when I did not care to talk, and 
then he kept silence ; he saw when his words 
might administer solace, and then always 
found subjects suited to my frame of mind, 
sometimes cherishing it, and sometimes aim- 
ing, by degrees, to divert me from it. A more 
noble soul than his, I have never known ; 
equal to his, very few. A great love of just- 
ice, great toleration, great confidence in hu- 
man virtue and in the aids of Providence, a 
most lively sense of the beautiful in all the 
arts, an imagination rich in poetry, all the 
most amiable endowments of mind and heart, 
united to render him dear to me. 

I did not forget Oroboni; each day I la- 
mented his death ; but often my heart re- 
joiced in the reflection that this beloved friend, 
freed from every evil, and happy in the bosom 
of his God, must rank in the number of his 
joys, that of seeing me with a friend no less 
affectionate than he. 

A voice within my soul seemed to assure 
me that Oroboni was no longer in a state of 
expiation ; nevertheless, I ceased not to pray 
for him. Many times I dreamed of seeing 
him, and thought he prayed for me; and I 
liked to persuade myself that those dreams 



were not the effect of chance, but real mani- 
festations of him, which God permitted for 
the purpose of consoling me. I would appear 
ridiculous were I to describe the vividness of 
those dreams, and the real satisfaction they 
left me for whole days. 

But my religious feelings, and my friend- 
ship for Maroncelli, alleviated more and 
more my afflictions. The only idea that ter- 
rified me, was the possibility that this un- 
fortunate, with his health already so broken, 
though less threatening than mine, would 
precede me to the tomb. Every time that he 
was sick, I trembled ; every time I saw him 
grow better, was a holiday for me. 

The fear of losing him gave to my affec- 
tion an ever-increasing strength ; and the fear 
of losing me produced the same effect upon 
him. Ah! there is a great charm in that 
alternation of fear and hope for the only per- 
son that remains to us ! Our lot was surely 
one of the most miserable to be found on 
earth, and yet our boundless esteem and love 
for each other formed a species of happiness, 
even in the midst of our sufferings, that we 
truly felt. 



CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

I should have desired that the chaplain, 
with whom I had been so much pleased at 
the time of my first illness, could be given us 
for a confessor, and that we could see him 
from time to time, without being seriously ill. 
But instead of giving this charge to him, the 
governor assigned to us an Augustine monk, 
named Father Baptista, until his nomination 
should be confirmed at Vienna, or another one 
appointed. 

I feared to lose by the change ; I was mis- 
taken. Father Baptista was an angel of 
charity ; his manners were courteous, and 
even elegant; he reasoned profoundly upon 
the duties of man. 

We prayed him to visit us often. He came 
once a month, and oftener if he was able. 



MY PRISONS. 



77 



He brought us also some books, with the 
permission of the governor, and told us, in 
the name of his abbot, that the whole library 
of the convent was at our disposal. This 
would have been a great benefit to us if it 
had lasted. We profited by it, however, for 
several months. 

After confession, he stopped a long time to 
converse with us, and his whole discourse 
showed a mind upright, dignified, passion- 
ately devoted to the greatness and holiness of 
man. We had the good fortune to enjoy his 
light and his friendship about a year, and he 
never belied himself. Never did a syllable 
make us suspect an intention of serving poli- 
tics instead of his ministry ; never did he fail 
of the most delicate attentions. 

At first, to speak the truth, I distrusted 
him ; I expected to see him employ the acute- 
ness of his mind in unsuitable inquiries. Such 
distrust is but too natural in a prisoner of 
state ; but what a relief we experience when 
it subsides ; when we discover in the inter- 
preter of God, no other zeal than that for the 
cause of God and humanity ! 

Father Baptista had a manner of adminis- 
tering consolation peculiar to himself, and 
very efficacious. I accused myself, for ex- 
ample, of transports of rage on account of the 
rigors of our prison discipline. He moralized 
a little on the virtue of suffering with calm- 
ness, and with a forgiving spirit ; then, in the 
most vivid colors, he painted the miseries of 
conditions other than his own. He had 
lived much in town and country, had known 
the great and little, and meditated upon human 
injustice; he knew how to describe, to the 
life, the passions and habits of the various 
classes of society. Everywhere he showed 
me the powerful and the weak, oppressors 
and oppressed ; everywhere the necessity of 
either hating our fellows, or of loving them 
with a generous indulgence and compassion. 
The instances that he related to remind me 
of the universality of unhappiness, and the 
good effects to be derived from it, had nothing 
singular, they were even quite common; but 
he told them in such concise and forcible lan- 
guage, that I could not but feel strongly the 
conclusions to be drawn from them. 



Ah, yes ! every time I heard those tender 
reproofs and noble counsels, I burned with 
the love of virtue ; I no longer hated any one ; 
I would have given my life for the meanest 
of my species; I blessed God for having made 
me a man. 

Unhappy he, who knows not the sublimity 
of confession ! Unhappy he, who, not to 
appear vulgar, thinks himself obliged to turn 
it into derision ! Since every one knows that 
he ought to be good, it is not true that no 
benefit is gained from hearing it repeated, 
that our own reflections and suitable reading 
are sufficient. No! the living speech of a 
man has a power which neither reading nor 
reflection can have. The soul is more moved 
by it ; the impressions it makes are deeper. 
In the language of a brother, there is a life 
and a suitableness which we shall often 
look for in vain, either in books or in our 
own thoughts. 



CHAPTER LXXIX. 

In the beginning of 1824, the superintend- 
ent, who had his office at one end of our corri- 
dor, removed to some other place ; and those 
apartments, with others annexed to them, 
were converted into prisons. We compre- 
hended, alas ! that new prisoners of state 
were expected from Italy. 

Soon, indeed, those condemned at a third 
trial arrived ; all of them my friends or 
acquaintances. Oh, what was my sadness 
when I learned their names ! Borsieri was 
one of my oldest friends. I had been attach- 
ed to Confalonieri a shorter time, but I loved 
him with all my heart. If I could have 
averted their punishmeut and restored them 
to liberty by entering carcere durissimo, or 
any other imaginable torment, God knows I 
would have done it ! I do not only say that 
I would give my life for them ! Alas ! what 
is it to give one's life ? To suffer is far more ! 

I had then great need of Father Baptista; 
but he was no longer permitted to risit us. 



78 



MY PRISONS. 



New orders arrived for the maintenance of 
more severe discipline. The terrace that 
served us for a promenade was first sur- 
rounded with palisades in such a manner 
that no one could see us, not even from 
a distance, with telescopes; and thus we lost 
the magnificent view of the surrounding hills 
and the city which they commanded. This 
was not enough. To reach this terrace it 
was necessary, as I have said, to traverse the 
court, in which many persons had the oppor- 
tunity of seeing us. For the purpose of 
hiding us from all eyes, we were deprived of 
this place of promenade, and had assigned to 
us an extremely small one that was contigu- 
ous to our corridor, and facing the west, like 
our rooms. 

I cannot express how much this change of 
promenade distressed us. I have not men- 
tioned all the consolations that we enjoyed in 
the place which was taken from us. The 
sight of the superintendent's children, their 
sweet embraces, where we had seen their 
suffering mother in her last days; a little 
chat with the blacksmith that lodged close 
by ; the joyous songs and music of a corporal 
who played the guitar ; and lastly, an inno- 
cent love — not mine nor that of my compa- 
nion, but of a good Hungarian woman, the 
wife of a corporal, who sold fruit. She was 
taken with Maroncelli. 

Already, before he had been put with me, 
he and the woman, seeing each other almost 
every day, had formed a little friendship be- 
tween them. His mind was so honorable, so 
noble, so ingenuous, that he was entirely igno- 
rant of having won the love of this compassion- 
ate creature, until I called his attention to it. 
He hesitated to believe me, and in the mere 
doubt that I was right, he resolved to show 
himself cold towards her; but his increased 
reserve, instead of extinguishing her love, ap- 
peared to augment it. 

As the window of his room was elevated 
scarcely a cubit from the level of the terrace, 
she tripped round to our side under the pre- 
text of spreading out some linen to the sun or 
attending to some other little matter, and 
there she stood to look at us; and if she 
found opportunity she opened a conversation. 



Our poor guards, always tired from having 
slept little or none during the night, gladly 
seized the occasion of coming into that corner, 
where without being seen by their superiors, 
they could sit down upon the grass and take a 
nap. Maroncelli was then greatly embarrassed, 
so manifest was the love of the unfortunate wo- 
man. My embarrassment was still greater. 
Nevertheless such scenes, which would have 
been quite laughable if she had inspired us 
with a little respect, were for us serious, and 
I might say pathetic. The unhappy Hunga- 
rian had one of those physiognomies that 
infallibly indicate the habit of virtue and the 
desire of esteem. She was not handsome, 
but endowed with such an expression of gen- 
tleness, that the features of Ijer face, though 
a little irregular, seemed to grow pretty at 
each smile, at each movement of the muscles. 

If it were any part of my design to speak 
of love, many things would remain to be said 
of this unhappy and virtuous woman — now 
no more. But it suffices to have touched 
upon one of the rare events of our imprison- 
ment. 



CHAPTER LXXX. 

These increasing rigors rendered our life 
each day more monotonous. How did the 
entire years of 1824, 1825, 1826 and 3 827, 
pass with us ? We were deprived of the use 
of our books which the governor had condi- 
tionally granted us. The prison became for 
us a veritable tomb in which not even the 
quietness of the tomb was left us. Every 
month, upon some day indeterminate, the 
director of police came to make a thorough 
examination, accompanied by a lieutenant 
and his guards. They stripped us naked, 
examined all the seams of our clothes, in fear 
that some paper or other thing might be kept 
concealed in them; they ripped open our 
straw beds to rummage the interior. Al- 
though nothing private could be found upon 
us, this visit, hostile and made by surprise, 



MY PRISONS. 



79 



and repeated without end, had something, I 
know not what, that irritated me, and every 
time threw me into a fever. 

The preceding years had seemed so unhap- 
py, and now I thought upon them with regret 
as a time of pleasing enjoyments. Where 
were those hours wherein I plunged into the 
study of the Bible or of Homer ? By dint of 
reading Homer in the original, the slight 
knowledge of Greek that I possessed was 
increased, and I became passionately fond 
of that language. How much I regretted my 
not being able to continue the study of it. 
Dante, Petrarch, Shakspeare, Byron, Walter 
Scott, Schiller, Goethe, etc., of how many 
friends had I been robbed ! 

Amongst these I also counted some books 
of Christian knowledge, as Bourdaloue, Pas- 
cal, The Imitation of Christ, Philotheus, &c, 
books which, if ■ read with a narrow and 
illiberal criticism, exulting at every defect of 
taste, at every feeble thought, are thrown 
down and not taken up again ; but if they are 
read without malice, and without taking ex- 
ceptions at weak places, they discover a high 
philosophy, that yields substantial nourish- 
ment to the heart and the understanding. 

Some of these religious books were after- 
wards sent to us as a present by the Emperor, 
but with the absolute exclusion of all other 
kinds of books that promote literary pursuits. 

This gift of ascetic books was obtained in 
1825, by a Dalmatian confessor sent to us 
from Vienna, Father Stefano Panlowich, who 
was, two years after, made Bishop of Cattaro. 
To him also were we indebted for the privi- 
lege of attending mass, which hitherto had 
been refused to us, on the plea that we could 
not be conducted to church, and kept sepa- 
rate, two by two, as it was prescribed. 

So great a separation being impracticable, 
we went to mass divided into three groups : 
one was placed in the organ gallery, another 
below, in such a manner that they could not 
be seen ; and the third in a little oratory 
looking into the church by means of a grate. 

Maroncelli and I had then, as companions, 
six convicts, who had been sentenced before 
us, with a prohibition against any conversa- 
tion between the couples. Two of them had 



been my neighbors under the Leads of Venice. 
We were conducted by guards to the place 
assigned us, and after mass, were reconducted, 
each couple, to their prison. A capuchin 
came to 'say mass. The good man always 
closed the ceremonies by an Oremus, suppli- 
cating our deliverance from chains, during 
which his voice trembled with emotion. 
When he retired .from the altar, he gave 
a compassionate glance to each of the three 
groups, sadly, and inclined his head in prayer. 



CHAPTER LXXXI. 

In 1825, Schiller was regarded as now too 
much enfeebled by the infirmities of old age, 
and the custody of other prisoners was com- 
mitted to him, for whom so great a vigilance 
did not seem necessary. Oh, how deeply we 
regretted his removal, and how it grieved 
him to leave us ! 

His immediate successor was Krai; a man 
not inferior to him in kindness : but in a short 
time helikewise received another appointment, 
and his place was supplied by one who, with- 
out being bad, was cross, and a stranger to all 
show of affection. 

These changes distressed me deeply. Schil- 
ler, Krai and Kubitzky, but particularly the 
two former, had taken care of us in our sick- 
ness as a father or brother might have done. 
Incapable of failing in their duty, they knew 
how to discharge it without hardheartedness. 
If there was a little rudeness in externals, 
it was nearly always involuntary, and was 
fully redeemed by the proofs of attachment 
which they evinced. I was sometimes angry 
with them, but how cordially they forgave 
me ! how they labored to persuade us that 
they were not without affection for us, and 
how rejoiced they were in seeing that we 
were convinced of it, and that we regarded 
them as worthy men ! 

After Schiller's removal from us, he had 
been taken sick many times and had recover- 
ed. We had inquired after him with filial 



; so 



MY PRISONS. 



; anxiety, When he was convalescent, he 
j sometimes came to walk under our window. 
j We coughed to salute him, and he said to the 
' sentinel, loud enough for us to hear : " Da 
j sind meine sohne /" (" These are my child- 
| ren !") 

Poor old man ! how it pained me to see 
\ thee slowly dragging along thy sick body, and 
| I not able to support thee with my arm ! 

Sometimes he sat down on the grass and 
read. They were books that he had lent to 
me. And that I might recognize them, he 
told their titles to the sentinel, or repeated 
some passages from them. These were gene- 
rally almanac tales or other romances of little 
literary merit, but full of moral instruction. 

After several attacks of apoplexy, he was 
carried to the military hospital. He was al- 
ready in a very bad state, and in a short time 
he died. He possessed a few hundred florins, 
the fruit of his long savings ; and had lent 
them to some of his companions in arms. 
When he perceived himself near his end, 
he sent for his friends and said to them : " I 
have no longer any relations ; each of you 
keep what he has in his hands. I only ask 
of you to pray for me." 

One of them had a daughter of eighteen, 
who was the god-daughter of Schiller. A 
few hours before his death, the good old man 
summoned her to his bedside. He was un- 
able to articulate his words distinctly ; he 
drew from his finger a silver ring, his last 
wealth, placed it on the finger of the maiden, 
and embraced her weeping. The poor girl cried 
aloud, and covered him with her tears. He 
wiped them from her eyes with his handker- 
chief; then taking her hands he placed them 

upon his eyes those eyes were closed for 

ever ! 



CHAPTER LXXXII. 

Thus human consolations continued to fail 
us one after another ; and our hardships were 
ever on the increase. I resigned myself to 



the will of God, but my resignation was ac- 
companied with groans ; and my soul, instead 
of becoming inured to suffering, seemed to 
feel it each day more acutely. 

A number of the Augsburg Gazette was 
one day privily brought to me, in which a 
very strange thing appeared concerning me, 
occasioned by one of my sisters having taken 
the veil. 

It ran thus : " La signora Maria Angiola 
Pellico, daughter of, &c, &c, has this day 
taken the veil in the monastery of the Visita- 
tion at Turin. She is the sister of the author 
of Francesco, da Rimini, Silvio Pellico, who 
has recently left the fi&rtress of Spielberg, 
thanks to His Majesty the Emperor: an act 
of clemency truly worthy of so magnani- 
mous a sovereign, and that fills all Italy with 
rejoicing, since, &c." Here followed a pane- 
gyric of myself. 

I was at a loss to imagine why this fable 
of my pardon had been invented. That it 
was a mere diversion of the journalist did 
not seem probable. It was perhaps some 
stratagem of Austrian policy ? Who knows ? 
But the name, Maria Angiola, was precisely 
that of my youngest sister. It must, doubt- 
less, have been copied from the Gazette of 
Turin into other journals. The excellent 
girl was then really made a nun ! Ah, per- 
haps she has taken this step, because she has 
lost her parents! Poor girl! She was not 
willing that I alone should suffer the dis- 
tresses of a prison : she also must needs im- 
mure herself. May the Lord give her the 
virtues of patience and self-denial, more than 
he has to me ! How often in her cell will 
that angel think of me ! How often will she 
perform hard penance, to obtain of God an 
alleviation of her brother's calamities ! 

These thoughts softened and wrung my 
heart. My misfortunes must have too surely 
tended to shorten the days of my father or 
mother, or perhaps of both ! The more I 
thought of it, the more it seemed to me im- 
possible that, without such a loss, my little 
Maria could have abandoned the paternal 
roof. This idea weighed upon me as if it 
were a certainty, and sunk me into the most 
painful depths of sorrow. 



MY PRISONS. 



83 



Maroacelli was no less moved than I was. 

Some days after, he set himself to compose a 

: poetical lament upon the sister of the prisoner. 

; The result was an exquisite little poem, 

; breath nig the spirit of grief and melancholy. 

When it was finished he recited it to me. 

Oh, how grateful I was to him for this mark 

of kindness ! Among the many millions of 

verses hitherto composed on the subject of 

taking the veil, these were probably the only 

ones that were composed in prison for the 

brother of the nun, by a companion in irons. 

What a union of pathetb and pious ideas! 

Thus did friendship sweeten my evils. 
Alas, from that moment, not a day passed 
that my thoughts d.d not wander a long time 
in a convent of maidens ; that among them I 
did not contemplate one, and one alone, with 
the tenderest compassion ; that I did not pray 
ardently to Heaven to embellish her solitude, 
and not permit her imagination to paint my 
prison to her in too horrible colors ! 



CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

Let not the reader imagine, from my se- 
cretly receiving this gazette, that I often suc- 
ceeded in procuring news of the world. No : 
all about me were good people, but all were 
bound by excessive fear. If some slight in- 
fraction of discipline happened, it was only 
when there appeared to be really no danger. 
! And it was difficult for any to happen, in the 
midst of so many inspections, ordinary and 
extraordinary. 

"With the exception of the word just men- 
tioned, in relation to my sister, it was never 
given me to receive in secret, any news of 
my dear friends so far from me. 

My fear that my parents were no more, 
was rather augmented than diminished some 
time after, by the manner in which the direc- 
tor of police once came to announce to me 
that my family were well. 

" His Majesty the Emperor," said he, 
" commands me to give you good news of all 
the relations you have at Turin." 



I leaped with pleasure and surprise at this 
communication that was never made before, 
and demanded further particulars. 

" I left at Turin," said I to the director, 
" a father and mother, brothers and sisters. 
Are they all living? Oh ! if you have a let- 
ter from any of them, I entreat you to show 
it to me." 

" I can show you nothing. You must con- 
tent yourself with that. It is a further proof 
of kindness on the part of the emperor, to 
send such consoling words : it has not been 
done before for anybody." 

" I agree that it is a proof of the kindness 
of the emperor, but you perceive how im- 
possible it is for me to draw any consolation 
from words so vague. Which of my rela- 
tions are well ? Have I lost none of them ?" 

" I am sorry, sir, that I can tell you no 
more than has been set down for me." 

And thereupon he withdrew. 

It was certainly intended to afford me some 
consolation by this news. But I persuaded 
myself that the emperor, willing to yield to 
the entreaties of some of my relations, and 
allow this message to be brought, did not 
wish me to be shown a letter, that I might 
not discover which of my friends were no 
more. 

Several months afterwards another mes- 
sage of the same kind was brought to me. 
No letter, no further explanation. 

They saw that I was not satisfied with 
that, and that it only increased my afflictions, 
and never afterwards did they tell me any- 
thing of my family. 

The thought that my parents were dead, and 
perhaps my brothers also, and Josephine my 
other dearly beloved sister; that little Maria, 
their only survivor, was, perhaps, going to fade 
away in the anguish of solitude and the hard- 
ships of penance, detached me more and more 
from life. 

Sometimes when violently attacked by my 
ordinary maladies, or by new ones, such as 
dreadful colics, with extremely painful symp- 
toms like those of cholera morbus, I hoped 
that I might die; yes, that is the very word; 
I hoped. 

And still (oh,* the contradictions of man !) 



82 



MY PRISONS. 



when I cast a glance at my languishing friend, 
my heart was wrung at the idea of leaving 
him alone, and again I desired to live. 



CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

Three different times, personages of high 
rank came from Vienna to visit our prisons, 
to assure themselves that there was no abuse 

I of discipline. The first was the Baron Von 
Munch, who, moved to pity by the little day- 
light we enjoyed, promised to present a peti- 
tion to have our day lengthened, by suspending 
a lantern for several hours of the evening on 
the outside of our wicket. His visit took 

j place in 1825. A year afterwards his charita- 
ble purpose was effected ; and thus by favor 
of this sepulchral light, we could thenceforth 
see the walls, and walk without breaking oui 
heads. 

The second visit was that of the Baron 
Von Vogel. He found me in a deplorable 
state of health, and learning that the physi- 
cian, although he thought coffee would be 
good for me, dared not order it, because it 
was an article of luxury, he spoke a word of 
consent in my favor, and the coffee was 
ordered. 

The third visit was that of, I know not 
what other lord of the court, a man fifty or 
sixty years old, who showed us, by his man- 
ners and his words, the most generous com- 
passion. He was able to do nothing for us, 
but the sweet expression of his kindness was 
a benefit, and we were grateful to him. 

Oh what an ardent longing dees the pris- 
oner feel to see the beings of his own species ! 
The Christian religion, so rich in humanity, 
has not forgotten to place the visiting of pris- 
oners among the number of the works of 
mercy. The sight of men who sympathize 
in your misfortunes, even when they have no 
greater means of assuaging them, soothes and 

|j consoles you. 

Absolute solitude may contribute to reform 

j some minds; but I believe that, in general, it 



will effect much more when it is not carried 
to extremes, when it is combined with some 
contact with society. At least that is the 
case with me. If I do not see my fellow 
men, I concentrate my love upon too small a 
number of them, and remain indifferent to 
the rest; if I can see, I will not say many, 
but a reasonable number of them, I feel a 
love for the whole human race. 

A thousand times I have discovered my 
heart so entirely devoted to a few individuals, 
and so filled with hatred for others, that 1 was 
frightened. Then I went to the window, 
sighing to behold some new face ; and deem- 
ed myself happy if the sentinel did not pass 
too near the wall ; if he was at such a dis- 
tance that I could see him; if he raised his 
head when he heard me cough, and had a 
pleasing countenance. When I seemed to 
discover in it a feeling of pity, I was seized 
with a sweet palpitation, as if that unknown 
soldier had been an intimate friend. If he 
moved away, I awaited his return with affec- 
tionate anxiety, and if he returned and looked 
at me, I rejoiced as if it were a great act of 
charity. If he passed no more in such a 
manner that I could see him, I remained 
mortified like a man in love, who discovers 
that his adored does not care for him. 



CHAPTER LXXXV. 

In the cell adjoining ours, formerly occupied 
by Oroboni, were now D. Marco Fortini and 
Signor Antonio Villa. The latter, once pow- 
erful as Hercules, suffered excessively from 
hunger during the first year, and when he was 
allowed more food he was unable to digest it. 
He languished a long time, till, reduced almost 
to the last extremity, he obtained the favor 
of a more airy prison. The unwholesome 
atmosphere of a narrow sepulchre was, doubt- 
less, to him, as to all the rest, most pernicious. 
But the remedy he had prayed for was insuffi- 
cient. In that large chamber he lingered on 
a few months, then, after several vomitings 
of blood, he died. 



MY PRISONS. 



83 



He was assisted by his fellow-prisoner, D. 
Fortini, and the Abbe Paulowick, who had 
come from Vienna in all haste, when Villa 
was discovered to be near death. 

Although I had not attached myself to him 
so closely as to Oroboni, still his death was 
for me a great affliction. I knew that he was 
tenderly loved by his parents and his wife. 
As to him, he was more to be envied than 
mourned ; but the survivors ! 

He had also been my neighbor under the 
Leads; Tremerello had brought me some 
verses of his, and had carried to him some of 
mine. Sometimes his poems were pervaded 
by a vein of deep feeling. 

Learning from the guards after his death, 
what cruel sufferings he had enured, I seem- 
ed to be more strongly attached to him than 
while he lived. The unhappy man was un- 
able to resign himself to death, although he 
was devotedly pious. He felt the greatest 
degree of horror of that awful change, yet 
ceased not to bless the Lord and cry to him 
with tears: "I am not able, my God, to 
conform my will to thine, though I desire to 
do it; work in me this miracle !" 

He had not the courage of Oroboni, but he 
imitated him in declaring that he forgave his 
enemies. 

At the end of that year (1826), we heard 
one evening, in the passage, the ill-suppressed 
noise of many persons walking. Our ears had 
become well skilled in distinguishing sounds 
of all kinds. A door opened, which we re- 
cognized as that of the advocate Solera. 
Another opened; it was Fortini's. Among 
several voices speaking low we distinguished 
that of the Director of Police. "What can it 
be ? An examination at such a late hour ? 
And why ? 

Presently they came out again into the 
corridor; when, lo ! the voice of the good 
Fortini : " O povereto mi ! excuse me, I have 
forgotten a volume of my breviary." 

And he ran quickly to fetch the volume, 
and soon rejoined the little party. The door 
of the stairway was opened ; we listened to 
their steps until they reached the bottom : we 
comprehended that those two had been so 
fortunate as to receive their pardon ; and al- 



though it grieved us not to follow them, we 
rejoiced at their happiness. 



CHAPTER LXXXVI. 

Was the deliverance of these two compa- 
nions without any consequence to us? How 
did they gain their freedom, who, like our- 
selves, had been condemned, one to twenty, 
and the other to fifteen years of imprisonment ; 
and why did not this favor shine upon us and 
many others? Did more serious obstacles 
exist, then, against those not liberated? or 
could this be a plan of pardoning all, but with 
brief intervals between them, two at a time? 
Perhaps every month ? perhaps every two or 
three months ? 

Thus for some time we remained in doubt. 
More than three months elapsed, and no other 
liberation took place. Towards the end of 
1827, we thought that December might have 
been fixed upon for the day of grace; but De- 
cember passed, and nothing happened. 

Our hope was protracted till the summer 
of the year 1S28, at which time would expire 
my seven years and a half of imprisonment, 
equivalent to fifteen, according to the words 
of the Emperor, counting from the time of my 
arrest. But if the time taken up by the trial 
should not be included (which supposition 
was the most probable), and the computation 
should be made from the public announcement 
of my sentence, the seven years and a half 
would not expire till some time in the year 
1829. 

All the periods fixed upon by our reckon- 
ings passed by, and no pardon came. Mean- 
while, even before the departure of Solera and 
Fortini, there came a tumor upon the left 
knee of my poor friend Maroncelli. At the 
commencement, the pain was slight, and only 
caused him to walk lame ; then he had difficul- 
ty in dragging his chain, and rarely went out 
to walk. One morning in autumn, he desired 
to go out with me and breathe a little fresh 
air ; snow had already fallen, and in an un- 



MY PRISONS. 



lucky moment, when I was not supporting 
him, he stumbled and fell. The blow imme- 
diately caused the pain in the knee to become 
acute. We carried him to his bed, for he 
could no longer stand up. When the physi- 
cian came, he at last determined to take off 
his irons. The tumor grew worse every day, 
attaining an enormous size, and becoming 
more and more painful. The torments of the 
poor sufferer were such that he could neither 
find rest in his bed nor out of it. 

When it was necessary for him to be 
moved, to rise, or go to bed, I had to take 
hold of the diseased leg with the utmost 
delicacy, and carry it very gently in the way 
which was agreeable to him. Sometimes, 
from making the slightest change of position, 
he suffered convulsions a quarter of an hour. 

Leeches, cauteries, caustics, poultices, dry 
and wet — everything was tried by the physi- 
cian. They produced an increase of suffering, 
and nothing more. After the application of 
caustics, suppuration took place. The tumor 
became one entire sore; bui it never grew 
less, never did the suppuration bring any relief 
to his pain. 

Maroncelli was a thousand times more un- 
happy than I was; and yet, how I suffered 
with him ! The cares of a nurse were pleasant 
to me in attending so worthy a friend. But to 
see him thus perishing, amid such long ex- 
cruciating tortures, and not be able to restore 
him to health ; to foresee that that knee could 
never be cured ; to perceive that tiie sick man 
regarded his death as more probable than his 
recovery, and to be compelled to admire his 



courage and serenity 
pressible anguish I 



-oh ! it gave me inex- 



CHAPTER LXXXVII. 

In this deplorable condition he composed 
poetry, sung, and conversed ; he did everything 
to blind my eyes, and conceal from me a part 
of his sufferings. He could neither digest his 
food nor sleep; he became frightfully emaci- 



ated, and had frequent fainting fits; and still, 
at times he recovered his powers and re- 
animated my courage. 

What he suffered during nine long months 
beggars description. At last, a consultation 
was granted. The chief physician came, ap- 
proved all that the doctor had tried, and went 
away without giving his opinion upon the 
disease, and what remained to be done. 

A moment after, the deputy superintendent 
came in, and said to Maroncelli : " The phy- 
sician-in-chief did not venture to explain him- 
self here in your presence; he was afraid you 
had not strength to hear him announce the 
cruel necessity. I assured him that you had 
no lack of courage." 

"I hope,",<j|aid Maroncelli, "that I have 
given sufficient proof of that, in enduring 
these tortures without complaint. Can it be 
proposed to ?" 

"Yes, signer, to perform an amputation. 
Only the physician, seeing the exhausted state 
of your body, hesitates to advise it. Do you 
feel yourself, in your present weakness, capa- 
ble of supporting the amputation? Are you 
willing to risk the danger?" 

"Of dying-? And shall I not equally die 
in a short time, if they do not put an end to 
these torments ?" 

" We shall then immediately make a report 
of the whole affair to Vienna, and as soon as 
the permission to amputate shall have 
come" 

"What! is there need of a permission?" 

" Yes, signor." 

At the end of eight days the expected per- 
mission arrived. The sick man was carried 
into a larger chamber; he requested that I 
might come with him. 

"I might die under the operation," said 
he ; " let me at least die in the arms of my 
friend." My company was granted. 

The Abbe Urba, our confessor (who had 
succeeded Paulowick), came to administer the 
sacraments to the unfortunate man. This 
religious duty over, we waited for the sur- 
geons, who had not yet come. Maroncelli 
commenced singing a hymn. 

At length the surgeons made their appear- 
ance : there were two of them. One was the 



MY PRISONS. 



h5 



ordinary surgeon of the establishment, that is 
to say, our barber, who, when an operation 
was to be performed, had the right of doing 
it with his own hand, and was unwilling to 
yield the honor to any other. The other was 
a young surgeon, brought up in the school of 
Vienna, and already enjoying the reputation 
of great abilities. The latter, sent by the 
governor to assist at and direct the operation, 
would have wished to perform it himself; 
but he was obliged to content himself with 
watching its execution. 

The patient was seated upon the edge of 
the bed, with his legs hanging down ; I held 
him in my arms. Above the knee, where the 
thigh began to be sound, a ligature was bound, 
to mark the circle which the knife Was to 
follow. The old surgeon made an incision all 
round, to the depth of an inch ; then he turned 
back the skin thus cut, and continued to ope- 
rate upon the naked muscles. The blood 
flowed in torrents from the arteries, but they 
were soon tied with a thread of silk. At last 
he sawed the bone. 

Maroneelli uttered not a cry. When he 
saw them carry away his leg, dissevered, he 
gs#e it a look of compassion ; then turning to 
the operator, he said : "You have delivered 
me from an enemy, and I have no means of 
rewarding you." 

There was a rose in a glass standing upon 
the window. 

" I pray thee bring me that rose," said he 
to me. 

I brought it to him, and he presented it to 
the old surgeon, saying to him : "I have no- 
thing else to offer you in testimony of my 
gratitude." 

He took the rose, and wept. 



CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 

The surgeons had supposed that the infir- 
mary of Spielberg was provided with all that 
was necessary, except the instruments which 
thev brought. But the amoutation being 



finished, they discovered that various indis- 
pensable articles were wanting: sticking- 
plaster, ice, bandages, etc. 

The- mutilated sufferer had to wait two 
hours, till all this could be brought from the 
city. At length he was able to straighten 
himself upon the bed, and the ice was applied 
to the stump. 

The next day they removed the clots of 
blood which had formed upon it, washed 
it, drew forward the skin, and put on the 
bandages. 

For many days nothing was given to the 
patient but half a tea-cup of broth with the 
yellow of an egg beaten. "When the danger 
of the vulnerary fever was past, they began 
by degrees to reinvigorate him with more 
nutritious aliments. The emperor had given 
orders that he should be supplied with good 
food from the supsrintendenvs kitchen, until 
he had regained his strength. 

The cure was wrought in forty days ; after 
which we were returned to our former cell. 
This had been enlarged by making an opening 
in the wall and thus uniting it to the -room for- 
merly occupied by Oroboni, and afterwards 
Villa. 

I removed my bed to the same spot where 
Oroboni's had been, and where he died. This 
identity of place was dear to me; I seemed 
to be brought nearer to him. I frequently 
dreamed of him, and it appeared to me that 
his spirit really visited me, and calmed my 
mind with heavenly consolations. 

The terrible sight of so great torments suf- 
fered by Maroneelli previous to the amputa- 
tion of his leg, as well as during and after the 
operation, fortified my soul. God, who had 
granted me sufficient health throughout the 
time of his sickness, because my attentions 
were necessary to him, deprived me of it as 
soon as he could support liimself on crutches. 

I had several glandular tumors that were 
excessively painful. From these I recovered, 
but they were succeeded by pains in the 
breast, such as I had formerly experienced, 
yet now more suffocating than ever, and also 
by vertigo and spasmodic dysentery. 

"My turn is come," said I to myself; 
" shall I be less patient than my companion ?" 



MY PRISONS. 



I studied, therefore, as far as I was able, to 
imitate his virtue. 

Every human condition has, doubtless, its 
peculiar duties. Those of the sick are, pa- 
tience, courage, and making all possible efforts 
not to be disagreeable to those about them. 

Maroncelli with his poor crutches, no long- 
er possessed the agility of other times, and 
he was much troubled at it, fearing that he 
should not serve me so promptly. He feared, 
moreover, that for the purpose of sparing 
him motion and fatigue, I would not have 
recourse to his assistance as often as I had 
need. 

This, in truth, sometimes happened, but I 
endeavored that he should not perceive it. 

Although he had recovered his strength, 
he was not, on that account, exempt from 
pain. Like all persons who had suffered am- 
putation, he experienced painful sensations in 
the nerves, as if the part cut off still existed. 
He felt pains in the foot, the leg and the knee, 
which he had no more. In addition to this, 
the bone had been badly sawn, and piercing 
the new flesh, it produced frequent wounds. 
It was about a year before the stump was so 
far hardened as not to open again. 



CHAPTER LXXXIX. 

Bsjt new evils assailed the wretched man, 
almost without intermission. At first he had 
an arthritis, commencing with the joints of 
the hands, and torturing his whole body for 
many months; and after that the scurvy. 
This last scourge covered his body in a short 
time with livid spots, which rendered it 
frightful. 

I sought to console myself with the thought : 
since we have got to die here, it is better for 
one of us to be taken with the scurvy ; it is 
j a contagious disease and will carry us to the 
grave, if not together, at least within a short 
space of time of each other. 

We both prepared ourselves for death and 
were calm. Nine years of imprisonment and 



great sufferings, had at length made us fa- 
miliar with the idea of the total destruction 
of two bodies so broken, and so much in 
want of repose. Our souls trusted in the 
goodness of God, hoping to be re-united in a 
place where all the resentment of men ceases, 
and where we prayed that we might one day 
meet, in reconciliation, those who loved us 
not. 

In former years, the scurvy had made 
dreadful havoc in these prisons. The gov- 
ernment learning that Maroncelli was attack- 
ed by this terrible malady, dreaded a new 
epidemic, and consented to the demand of the 
physician, who declared that no remedy 
would be efficacious for Maroncelli but the 
open air, and advised that he should remain 
in doors as little as possible. As his room- 
mate and being myself sick of cachexy, I en- 
joyed the same privilege, 

We remained out of doors all the time 
that the promenade was not occupied by 
others, that is, from half an hour before day 
for a couple of hours, then during dinner- 
time, if we liked, and after that, three hours 
in the afternoon until after sunset. So much 
for ordinary days. On festival days the pi- 
soners were not allowed to walk, and we 
stayed out from morning to night, except 
during dinner. 

Another unfortunate, about seventy years 
old, whose health was entirely ruined, was 
added to our company, in the hope that the 
pure air might help him. His name was 
Constantino Munari, an amiable old man, 
passionately fond of literary and philosophical 
pursuits, and whose society was a source of 
great pleasure to us. 

Should the time of my imprisonment be 
computed, not from the time of my arrest, 
but from that of my condemnation, the seven 
and a half years would end in 1829, in the 
early part of July, dating from the signaiure 
of the Emperor, or on the 22d of August 
dating from the day the sentence was made 
public. 

But this period, too, passed, and all hope 
was extinguished. 

Until then, Maroncelli, Munari, and myself 
sometimes entertained the thought of again 



MY PRISONS. 



87 



seeing the world, our dear Italy, and our rela- 
tions; and it was the subject of conversations 
full of regret, piety and love. 

August, September, in fine the whole year 
passed, and we made up our minds to hope 
for nothing more upon earth, except the un- 
alterable continuance of our mutual friend- 
ship, and the assistance of God worthily to 
complete the remainder of our great sacrifice. 

Friendship and religion are two inestimable 
blessings; they embellish even the hours of 
the prisoner, upon whom the probability of 
pardon has ceased to shine! God is truly 
with the unhappy ; — with the unhappy who 
love him ! 



CHAPTER XC. 

After the death of Villa and the depart- 
ure of the Abbe Paulowick, who had been 
created Bishop, we received as our confessor 
the Abbe Urba, a Moravian, Professor of the 
New Testament at Brunn, and a distinguished 
scholar of the Instituto sublime at Vienna. 

This institute is a congregation founded by 
the celebrated Frint, at that time chaplain of 
the court. The members of this congrega- 
tion are all priests, who have already received 
their degrees in theology, and who pursue 
their studies there under severe discipline, in 
order to reach the highest eminence of know- 
ledge attainable. The intention of the foun- 
der was indeed noble: that of a perpetual dif- 
fusion of true and sound learning among the 
Catholic clergy of Germany; and this object 
is pretty generally attained. 

Urba, residing at Briinn, could give us a 
larger share of his time than Paulowick. 
He became to us what father Baptista had 
been, except that he was not permitted to 
lend us books. We ofien held long confer- 
ences together, which were beneficial to my 
piety, or at least seemed to be so, and which 
afforded me the greatest comfort. 

In the year 1829 he had a fit of sickness, 
and being afterwards obliged to enter upon 



other engagements, he could no longer visit 
us. This grieved us deeply ; but we had the 
good fortune to receive in his stead, the abbe 
Ziak, vicar, another learned and distinguished 
man. 

Among the many German ecclesiastics as- 
signed to us, we did not find a single bad 
one; not one whom we could discover willing 
to become the instrument of politics (a thing 
so easy to detect), not one, on the contrary, 
who did not unite in himself great learning, 
profound philosophy and a fearless profession 
of the Catholic faith. Oh, how worthy of 
respect are such ministers of the Church ! 

The few that I was acquainted with gave 
me an extremely favorable opinion of the 
German Catholic clergy. 

The abbe Ziak also held long conferences 
with us. His example taught me how to 
bear my sufferings with calmness. Though 
tormented by constant diseases of the teeth, 
the throat, the ears, his face was never with- 
out a smile. 

Meanwhile, under the influences of the 
open air, the scurvy spots of Maroncelli grad- 
ually disappeared ; Munari and myself were, 
likewise, much better. 



CHAPTER XCI. 

The first day of August, 1830, appeared. 
Ten years had rolled round since I had lost 
my liberty ; eight years and a half I had en- 
dured the carcere duro. 

It was Sunday. We went, as on other 
festivals, into the usual enclosure. Again we 
looked from the little wall at the valley be- 
neath us, and the cemetery where Oroboni 
and Villa reposed ; again we spoke of the rest 
which our bones would one day find there. 
We sat down again upon our accustomed 
bench to wait for the coming of the poor fe- 
male convicts to their mass, which was said 
before our own. They were conducted into 
the same little oratory where we went for the 



MY PRISONS. 



following mass. It was close by the prome- 
nade. 

It is the custom in Germany, for the people 
to sing the hymns during mass, in a living 
language. As the empire of Austria is a 
country having a mixed population of Ger- 
mans and Sclavonians, and, as in the prisons 
of Spielberg, most of the ordinary convicts 
belong to one or the other of these races, the 
hymns at one service are sung in the German 
language, and at the other in the Sclavonic. 
So, also, two sermons are preached at each 
service, employing these two languages alter- 
nately. It was an exquisite pleasure for us to 
listen to these chants, accompanied by the 
organ. 

Among the women there were some whose 
voices went to the heart. Unhappy creatures ! 
Some of them were very young. Love, jea- 
lousy, evil example, had drawn them into 
crime! I heard again vibrating in my soul, 
their pathetic chant of the Sanctus: Heilig! 
heilig! heilig! and again I shed a tear in 
listening to it. 

At ten o'clock the women retired, and we 
in our turn went to the mass. Once ftore I 
saw those of my companions in misfortune 
who heard mass in the organ gallery, from 
whom a grate only divided us, all pale, thin, 
and dragging with pain the weight, of their 
irons. 

After mass we returned to our cells. A 
quarter of an hour after, our dinner was 
brought. We made ready our table, which 
consisted in placing a board upon the bed, and 
taking our wooden spoons, when Mr. Wey- 
rath, the deputy superintendent, entered cur 
prison. 

" I am very sorry to interrupt your dinner, 
gentlemen," said he, "but have the kindness 
to follow me, the director of the police is 
outside." 

As the latter usually came for disagreeable 
purposes, such as searches or examinations, 
we followed the good deputy in very bad hu- 
mor to the hall of audience. 

There we found the director of police and 
the superintendent ; the first bowed to us more 
politely than usual. 

He took a paper in his hand, and with words 



interrupted, as if afraid of producing too sud- 
den a surprise if he expressed himself more 
clearly, he said : 

"Gentlemen — I have the pleasure — I have 
the honor — to announce to you — that his 
majestv the emperor has again granted — a 
favor—" 

And he hesitated to tell us what, favor it 
was. We thought it might be some allevia- 
tion of punishment, such as exemption from 
the vexation of labor, having more books, or 
less disgusting food. 

" But you do not comprehend ?" said he. 

"No, sign or. Have the goodness to ex- 
plain what kind of favor you mean." 

" Liberty for you both and a third one, 
whom you will embrace directly." 

It would seem that this news ought to have 
transported us with joy. But our thoughts 
reverted to cur relations, of whom we had 
heard nothing for so long a time, and the ap- 
prehension of seeing them no more on earth 
took such possession of our minds as to de- 
stroy the pleasure which the announcement 
of our freedom was calculated to give us. 

" You are mute !" said the director of po- 
lice. "I expected to see you exulting with joy." 

" I pray you," I replied, " to make known 
our gratitude to the emperor; but if we get 
no news of our families, it is impossible not 
to fear that w^e have lost our dearest friends. 
This uncertainty weighs upon us even at the 
moment which should be that of the greatest 

joy." ^ 

He then gave to Maroncelli a letter from 
his brother, which consoled him. He told 
me there was none from my family, and this 
made me still more afraid that some calamity 
had befallen them. 

" Return to your room," he continued, " and 
I will shortly send you the third man who has 
likewise been pardoned." 

We withdrew and awaited this third per- 
son with anxiety. We could have wished 
that all had been pardoned, yet there could 
be but one. Y/ould it were poor old Munari ! 
or such, or such an one ! There was none in 
behalf of whom we did not offer prayers. 

At length the door opened and we saw that 
our companion was Andrea Tonelli, of Brescia. 



MY PRISONS. 



89 



We embraced each other. Our appetite for 
dinner was gone. We conversed until even- 
ing, compassionating the friends that remained. 

At sunset the director of police returned to 
take us out of that wretched abode. Our 
hearts uttered a groan as we passed by the 
cells of so many that we loved, without the 
power to take them with us. Who knows 
how long they must still languish there ? 
Who knows how many of them are to be the 
prey of a lingering death? 

A soldier's cloak was thrown round the 
shoulders of each of us, and a cap placed on 
our heads, and thus with oar galley-slave 
clothes, but freed from our chains, we de- 
scended the fatal hill and were led into the 
city to the police prison. 

It was a beautiful moonlight. The streets, 
the houses 5 the people that we met, all ap- 
peared so charming and so strange, after the 
many years since I had enjoyed such a sight ! 



CHAPTER XCI-I. 

In the police prison we waited for an im- 
perial commissary that was to come from 
Vienna to accompany us to the frontiers. 
Meanwhile, as our trunks had been sold, we 
provided ourselves with clothes and linen, and 
doffed our prison costume. 

At the end of five days the commissary ar- 
rived, and the director of police consigned us 
to him, at the same time refunding the money 
that we had brought to Spielberg, together 
with that derived from the sale of our trunks 
and books; which money was afterwards re- 
stored to us at the frontiers. 

The expense of our journey was borne by 
the emperor, and nothing was spared. 

The commissary was Mr. Von Noe, a geri- 

' tleman attached to the secretary's office of the 

! minister of police. There could not have been 

! given us a person of more finished education. 

He always treated us with the utmost respect. 

I left Briinn laboring under a great difficulty 



of breathing, and the motion of the carriage 
so much increased the evil, that at evening I 
panted in a frightful manner, and it was feared 
that I would suffocate from one minute to the 
other. I had, besides, a burning fever all 
night, and the commissary doubted, on the 
following morning, whether I could continue 
my journey to Vienna. I said yes, and we set 
out. My suffering was violent in the extreme ; 
I could neither eat, drink, nor speak. 

I reached Vienna half dead. A good lodg- 
ing was given us at the head quarters of the 
police. They put me to bed and sent for a 
physician, who ordered bleeding, from which 
I experienced great relief. The most rigid 
diet and great quantities of digitalis, were my 
only regimen for eight days, and 1 recovered. 
The physician was Dr. Singer; his attentions 
to me were truly those of a friend. 

I had the greatest anxiety to set off, and the 
more so, that the news of the three days at 
Paris had reached us. 

The emperor had signed the decree of our 
release on the very day the revolution broke 
out. Pie would not certainly revoke, it now; 
but it was not unlikely, that since the times 
were becoming so critical for k ali Europe, he 
might fear popular movements in Italy also, 
and might be unwilling, at that crisis, to let 
us return to our country. We were fully per- 
suaded that we should not return to Spielberg, 
but we feared that some one would suggest to 
the emperor the idea of transferring us to some 
city of the empire, remote from the peninsula. 

I affected to be better than I was in reality, 
and begged them to urge our departure. I 
had in the mean time the most ardent desire 
to be presented to his excellency, the Count 
di Pralormo, envoy from the court of Turin to 
that of Austria, to whose kindness I knew I 
had become greatly indebted. He had exert- 
ed himself with the most generous and con- 
stant assiduity to obtain my liberty. But the 
prohibition to see no one whatever, admitted 
of no exception. 

Scarcely was I convalescent, when a car- 
riage was kindly sent us for several days, to 
take a few turns through Vienna. The com- 
missary was obliged to accompany us, and not 
allow us to speak with any one. Wei saw the 



90 



MY PRISONS. 



beautiful church of St. Stephen, the delicious 
promenades of the city, the neighboring villa 
of Lichtenstein, and lastly, the imperial villa 
of Schoenbriinn. 

Whilst we were in the magnificent avenues 
of Schoenbriinn, the emperor happened to 
pass, and the commissary made us retire lest 
the sight of our emaciated bodies might sad- 
den him. 



CHAPTER XCIII. 

At length we left Vienna, and I was able 
to bear up as far as Bruck. There my asthma 
returned with all its violence. We called a 
physician ; it was a Mr. Jiidman, a man of 
great merit. He ordered me to be bled, to 
remain in bed, and to continue the digitalis. 
Two days after I insisted on continuing our 
journey. 

We travelled through Austria and Styria, 
and entered into Carinthia, without anything 
new ; but, on arriving at a village called 
Feldkirchen, a little distance from Klagen- 
furth, we were overtaken by a countermand. 
We were to stop there until further notice. 

I leave the reader to imagine how unplea- 
sant this event was to us; I had, besides, the 
chagrin of having been the cause of disappoint- 
ment to my two companions ; if they were 
unable to reach their country, my fatal mala- 
dy was the cause. 

We remained five days at Feldkirchen, 
where the commissary did his best to amuse 
us. There was a little theatre of poor come- 
dians, whither he conducted us. He treated 
us one day to the sight of a chase. Our host, 
with several young men of the country, and 
the proprietor of a fine woodland, were the 
hunters, and we, stationed at a convenient 
point, enjoyed the spectacle. 

A courier came, at length, from Vienna, 
with an order to the commissary to conduct 
us to our destination. I rejoiced with my 
companions at this happy news ; but, at the 
same time, I trembled to think that the day 



of, to me, fatal discovery was approaching, 
when I should learn that I had no longer 
either father or mother, and was bereaved of 
who knows what other dear friends ! 

My sadness increased in proportion as we 
approached Italy. 

On that side, the entrance to it is not agree- 
able to the eye. From the beautiful moun- 
tains of Germany, you descend into the plains 
of Italy, for a long distance sterile and unin- 
teresting ; so that some travellers, who hap- 
pen to pass along there before they know our 
peninsula, laugh at the magnificent idea they 
had conceived of it, and suspect they have 
been duped by those who have given them 
such brilliant descriptions of it. 

The savageness of the country contributed 
to render me still more sad. To see our 
heavens again, to meet human faces not 
bearing the characteristics of the north, to 
hear the words of our language from all lips, 
deeply affected me ; but it was an emotion 
which inclined me to tears rather than joy. 
How often, in the carriage, did I cover my 
face with my hands and weep, while pretend- 
ing to sleep ! How often, tossing with a 
burning fever, have I not closed my eyes dur- 
ing the night ; sometimes uttering benedic- 
tions, with my whole soul, upon my beloved 
Italy, and thanking Heaven for restoring me 
to it; sometimes tormenting myself at having 
received no news from home, and imagining 
unreal misfortunes ; and again reflecting that, 
in a short time, I should be forced to separate, 
perhaps, for ever, from a friend who had suf- 
fered so much with me, and had given me so 
many proofs of fraternal affection ! 

Ah ! so many years of burial had not extin- 
guished my power to feel; but this energy 
was so small for joy, so great for grief! 

How I should have liked to see Udine 
again, and that inn where those two generous 
friends had taken the disguise of servants, 
and secretly pressed our hands ! 

We passed that city, leaving it on our left. 



MY PRISONS. 



91 



CHAPTER XCIV. 

Pordenone, Conegliano, Ospedaletto, Vi- 
cenza, Verona, Mantua, recalled many asso- 
ciations. The first of these was the native 
place of a young man of merit, who had been 
my friend, and who had perished in the wars 
of Russia. Conegliano was the country, as 

I the secondini of the Leads told me, where 
Zanse had been sent. At Ospedaletto, an 
angelic, but unhappy, creature had been mar- 
ried ; she is dead now, but I had long revered 
her, and did so still. All these places, in 
short, awakened remembrances more or less 
dear ; and Mantua more than any other. It 
appeared to me but yesterday, that I had 
come there with Ludovico, in 1815 ; only 
yesterday that I had come with Porro, in 

I 1820! The same streets, the same squares, 
the same palaces, yet how great the changes 
in society ! how many of my acquaintances 
removed by death ! how many exiled ! a 
generation arrived at manhood whom I had 
seen in their infancy ! And to be unable to 
run to this or that house, or speak of such or 
such an one to anybody ! 

And, for a climax to my sorrow, Mantua 
was the point at which Maroncelli and I were 
to separate. We passed a night there, both 
extremely sad. I was agitated as a man 
upon the eve of his condemnation. 

In the morning, I washed my face, and 
looked in the glass to see if any one could 
discover that I had been weeping. I put on, 
as much as I could, a serene and smiling air ; 
I addressed a short prayer to God, but it was, 
in truth, much distracted ; and hearing Ma- 
roncelli already moving his crutches and 
speaking to the servant, I went to embrace 
him. Both of us seemed full of courage for 
this separation ; we spoke with a little emo- 
tion, but with a steady voice. The officer of 
the guard, who was to take him to the fron- 
tier of Romagna, had come ; he was obliged 
to go ; we hardly knew what to say to each 
other ; an embrace, a kiss, and still another 
embrace. He mounted the carriage, and 
disappeared ; I remained like one annihilated. 
Returning to my chamber, I threw myself 
on my knees, and interrupted by tears and 



sobs, I poured forth a prayer for the poor mu- 
tilated fellow, now separated from his friend. 
I have known many distinguished men, 
but none more affectionately social than Ma- 
roncelli ; no one who better understood all the 
niceties of politeness ; who was more exempt 
from fits of ill-humor ; who was more con- 
stantly mindful that virtue is composed of the 
continual exercise of forbearance, of generosi- 
ty, and of the judgment. Oh, my companion 
in so many years of suffering, may the bless- 
ings of Heaven attend thee wherever thou 
art, and give thee friends that equal me in 
affection, and surpass me in goodness ! 



CHAPTER XCY. 

We left Mantua the same morning for 
Brescia, where my other fellow-prisoner, 
Andrea Tonelli, was set at liberty. The un- 
happy man there learned that he had lost his 
mother, and his tears and despair wrung my 
heart. 

Although I was oppressed with anguish 
from so many causes, the following incident 
forced me to laugh. 

Upon the table of the inn was a bill of the 
theatre; I took it up and read: "Francesco, 
da Rimini, opera, etc." 

" Whose opera is this ?" said I to the 
waiter. 

"Who has put it into verse, and set it to 
music, I do not know," he answered ; " but, 
in substance, it is still the same Francesca da 
Rimini, that everybody knows." 

"Everybody? You are mistaken. I, who 
come from Germany, what do I know of your 
Francescas ?" 

The waiter (he was a young fellow of a 
scornful countenance, a real Brescian) looked 
at me with an air of contemptuous pity. 

" What do you know ? Who talks about 
Francescas? There is only one single 
Francesca da Rimini; that is, the tragedy 
of Signor Silvio Pellico. They have turned 



92 



MY PRISONS. 



it into an opera here, by spoiling it a little, but 
it is still the same." 

"Ah ! Silvio Pell ico ? It seems to me I have 
heard that name before. Is it not that ras- 
cally malcontent that was condemned to 
death, and then to carcere duro, eight or nine 
years ago ?" 

Would that I had not uttered this jest ! 
He looked around him, then fixed his eyes 
upon me, and if he had not heard some noise, 
I believe he would have knocked me down. 

He went away muttering " rascally mal- 
content !" But before I started, he discovered 
who I was. He could then neither ask a 
question, nor reply, nor walk. He could do 
nothing but stare at me, rub his hands, and 
say to everybody, unseasonably, "Yes, sir! 
Yes, sir !" as if he were beside himself. 

Two days after, on the ninth of September, 
I arrived at Milan with the commissary. In 
approaching the city, at the sight of the cu- 
pola of the dome, in passing again along the 
avenue of Loretto, once my usual and favorite 
promenade; when I entered the gate Oriental, 
and found myself upon the Corso, and ran my 
eyes along the houses, the temples, the streets, 
I experienced, at once, the sweetest and the 
most painful emotions ; a violent desire to stop 
a while at Milan, and embrace the friends that 
I might still find there ; inexpressible regret 
at the thought of those I had left at Spiel- 
berg, of those who were wandering in foreign 
lands, and of those that were no more ; a 
lively gratitude at the recollection of the affec- 
tion which the Milanese in general 'had mani- 
fested towards me ; a slight feeling of indig- 
nation against some few who had calumniated 
me, while they had ever been the objects of 
my kindness and esteem. 

We took lodgings at the Bella Veneziu. It 
was here that I had so many times partaken 
of the joyous, social banquet; here that I had 
visited so many foreigners of distinction ; here 
had an aged lady of great respectability urged 
me, but in vain, to follow her into Tuscany, 
foreseeing the misfortunes that would befall 
me if I remained at Milan. O touching me- 
mories ! days gone by, mixed with so 
many pleasures and pains, and so rapidly 
flown ! 



The waiters of the hotel discovered, at 
once, who I was. The news spread, and to- 
wards evening I saw many persons stop at 
the place and look up at the windows. One 
of them (I know not who it was) appeared to 
recognize me, and saluted me by raising both 
his arms. 

Alas ! where were the sons of Porro, my j 
sons ? Why did I not see them ? 



CHAPTER XCVI. 

The commissary conducted me to the po- 
lice, to present me to the director. What 
were my sensations in revisiting that house, j 
my first prison ! How much suffering recur- 
red to my mind ! With what tenderness, 
Melchiore Gioja, did I remember thee, and 
the hurried steps which I saw thee make up 
and down within those narrow Avails, and the 
hours thou didst spend immovable at thy ta- 
ble, writing thy noble thoughts, the signs 
thou madest me with thy handkerchief, and 
the sadness, of thy look to me when those 
signs were forbidden ! And I thought of thy 
tomb, unknown perhaps to the greater num- 
ber of those who loved thee, as it was un- 
known to me ! — and I prayed for the peace of 
thy soul ! 

I remembered, too, the little mute, the 
touching voice of Magdalen, my palpitation 
of compassion for her, the thieves my neigh- 
bors, the pretended Louis XVII. , the poor 
convict taken with the billet in his hand, and 
whom I thought I heard shriek under the rod. 
These and other reminiscences oppressed me 
like a painful dream, but more than all the 
recollection of the two visits of my poor 
father, ten years before. How the good old 
man deceived himself in hoping that I would 
soon be able to join him at Turin ! Could he 
have supported the idea of ten years' impris- 
onment for his son, and of such imprison- 
ment ! But when his illusions vanished, had 
he, had my mother, the strength to sustain a 



MY PRISONS. 



03 



grief so harrowing? Was it yet given me 
to behold them both once more ? or perhaps 
one, and which ? 

Oh, most tormenting and ever springing 
doubt ! I was, so to speak, at the door of my 
house, and did not yet know whether my pa- 
rents were still alive ; whether even one of 
my family remained. 

The director of police received me with 
politeness, and permitted me to remain with 
the imperial commissary at the Bella Vene- 
zia, instead of guarding me elsewhere. He 
did not allow me, however, to show myself 
to any one, and that determined me to depart 
the next morning. I only obtained permis- 
sion to see the Piedraontese consul, for the 
purpose of gaining some news of my family. 
I would have gone to his house, but being 
taken with fever and obliged to go to bed, I 
sent to beg him to come and see me. He 
had the politeness not to make me wait ; and 
how grateful I was to him ! 

He gave me good news of my father and 
my eldest brother. Concerning my mother, 
my other brother, and my two sisters, I re- 
mained in cruel uncertainty. Assured in part, 
but not sufficiently, I would have liked to 
prolong my conversation with the consul for 
the purpose of relieving my mind. He was 
not lacking in politeness, but was at length 
obliged to leave me. 

When left alone, I would have wept but 
could not. Why is it that sometimes sorrow 
made me burst into tears, while at other times, 
and even most generally, when it seems to 
me that tears would be a sweet relief, I 
invoke them in vain ? This impossibility of 
giving vent to my affliction heightened my 
fever; my head ached violently. 

I requested Stundberger to give me some 
drink. This excellent man was a sergeant 
of the police of Vienna, performing the duties 
of a servant for the commissary. He was 
not old, but he happened to give me trre cup 
with a trembling hand. This tremor remind- 
ed me of Schiller, my beloved Schiller, when, 
the day of my arrival at Spielberg, I demand- 
I ed the pitcher of water with an imperious 
air, and he presented it. 

Strange ! this remembrance, joined to the 



others, broke the rock of my heart, and the 
tears started. 



CHAPTER XCVII. 

On the morning of the tenth of September, 
I embraced my excellent commissary and de- 
parted. We had known each other only one 
month, and yet he already appeared to me a 
friend of many years' standing. His mind, 
possessing in a high degree a sense of the 
beautiful and the honorable, was without 
trick and artifice ; not that he wanted talents 
for intrigue, but because he had a love of that 
noble ingenuousness to be found in upright 
men. 

Some person, at a place where we stopped 
during our journey, said tome privately : " Be 
on your guard against that guardian angel ; if 
be were not an angel of darkness he would 
not have been assigned to you." 

" Indeed you are mistaken," I replied, " I 
have the fullest conviction that you are mis- 
taken." 

" The most cunning," answered he, " are 
those who appear the most candid." 

"If it were so, we could no longer trust in 
the virtue of any one." 

" There are certain positions in society, 
where you will meet the most finished educa- 
tion in respect of manners, but not of virtue ! 
not of virtue ! not of virtue !" 

I was unable to make any reply, otherwise 
than : " Exaggeration, my dear sir, exaggera- 
tion. !" 

" I am firm in my opinion," he insisted. 

Rut we were interrupted, and I remember- 
ed the cave a consequenliis of Leibnitz. 

The greater part of men reason with this 
false and terrible logic : " I follow the stand- 
ard A., which I am certain is that of justice; 
my neighbor follows the standard B., which 
I am equally certain is that of injustice; 
therefore he is a bad man." 

Ah no, ye mad logicians ! to whatever 
standard you belong, do not reason so inhu- 
manly ! consider that in setting out from any 



94 



MY PRISONS. 



unfavorable point whatever (and where is the 
society or individual that has none?) and with 
inflexible rigor proceeding from consequence 
to consequence, it is easy for any one to ar- 
rive at this conclusion: "Besides us four, 
everybody deserves to be burnt alive." And 
if a more narrow scrutiny is made, each of 
the four will say; "Everybody deserves to 
be burnt alive, except myself." 

This illiberally, so common, is antiphilo- 
sophical in the highest degree. A moderate 
distrust may be wise ; excessive distrust can 
never be. 

After the warning which I had received 
concerning this guardian angel, I applied 
myself to study him more attentively than I 
had hitherto done, and I became each day 
more convinced that liis nature was noble 
and inoffensive. 

When an order of society is established, 
whether more or less good, it matters little, 
all the offices of that society which are not 
regarded as infamous by the moral sense of 
the community ; all that promise to co-operate 
nobly for the public good, and in the promises 
of which a great many persons place confi- 
dence ; all the offices in which it would be 
absurd to deny there were many honorable 
men, may always be filled by honorable 
men. 

I have read of a quaker who had a horror 
of soldiers. He once saw a soldier throw 
himself into the Thames and save a wretch 
that was drowning ; and said : " I shall always 
be a quaker, but soldiers are also good crea- 
tures." 



CHAPTER XCVIII, 

Sttjndberger accompanied me to the car- 
riage, which I mounted with a brigadier of 
the guard, to whom I had been committed. 
It rained, and the wind was cold. 

" Wrap yourself well in your cloak," said 
Stundberger to me, " cover your head better, 
try not to reach home sick; it will require so 



little to make you take cold ! How sorry I 
am that I cannot lend you my services as far 
as Turin !" 

He said all this with the utmost earnest- 
ness, and with a voice of deep emotion, 

" Hereafter," he added, " you will perhaps 
have no German near you, and will never 
more, perhaps, hear that language spoken 
which the Italians find so harsh, and it will 
probably cause you little concern. You have 
had to endure so many sufferings among the 
Germans, that you will not have a very great 
desire to remember us. And yet I, whose 
name you will soon forget, I, signor, shall 
always pray for you." 

"And I for you," said I, squeezing his hand 
for the last time. 

The poor man cried again : " Guien 
morgen ! gule reise ! leben sic wohl .'" (Good 
morning, a pleasant journey ! farewell !) 
These were the last German words that I 
heard spoken; and they sounded as sweet to 
my ear as if they had been my own lan- 
guage. 

I love my country passionately, but I do 
not hate any other nation. Civilisation, 
wealth, glory, vary in different nations; but 
in all there are souls obedient to the great vo- 
cation of man, to love, to pity, and to do 
good. 

The brigadier who accompanied me, in- 
formed me that he had been one of those who 
arrested my unhappy friend Confalonieri. He 
related to me how he had tried to fly, how 
he had failed in his attempt, how he had 
been torn from the arms of his wife, and how 
Confalonieri and she, though deeply afflicted, 
had borne their misfortune with dignity. 

I burned with fever while listening to this 
tale of misery, a hand of iron seemed to 
wring my heart. 

The narrator, a man of open disposition 
and free and confident in conversation, did 
not perceive, that though I had nothing 
against him, I could not help shuddering 
when I looked at the hands which had been 
laid upon my friend. 

He took breakfast at Buffalora ; I was too 
deeply distressed, and took nothing. 

Once before, many years ago, when I was 



MY PRISONS. 



95 



rusticating at Arluno with the sons of Count 
Porro, I often came for a walk to Buffalora 
along the Ticino. 

I rejoiced to see completed the beautiful 
bridge, the materials for which I had seen 
scattered on the Lombardy bank of the river, 
with the opinion common at that time, that 
the undertaking would never be accomplished. 
My heart bounded with joy at again crossing 
that river and once more touching the soil of 
Piedmont. Ah ! though I love all nations, 
God knows how much more. I love Italy, and 
of all the Italian states, God knows how 
much the sweetest to my ear is the name of 
Piedmont, the land of my fathers I 



CHAPTER XCIX. 

Opposite to Buffalora is San Martino. 
There the Lombard brigadier spoke to the 
carbiniers of Piedmont, then saluting me, he 
re-recrossed the bridge. 

" We go to Novarra," said I to the coach- 
man. 

"Have the goodness to wait a moment," 
said a carbin,er. 

I saw that I was not yet free, and felt 
greatly annoyed at it, fearing that my arrival 
at the paternal mansion might be retarded. 

After more than a quarter of an hour, a 
gentleman appeared who asked my permis- 
sion to ride to Novarra with me. He had 
already lost one opportunity and now there 
w T as no other carriage but mine, and he was 
very happy that I allowed him to take ad- 
vantage of it, etc. 

This carbinier in disguise had a pleasant 
humor and was good company for me to 
Novarra. When we arrived in that city, pre- 
tending that lie wanted to stop at some hotel, 
he directed the carriage to the barrack of the 
carbiniers, where I was told that there was 
a bed for me in the chamber of a brigadier, 
and that I was to wait for superior orders. 

I thought I should be able to go on the 
next day ; I went to bed, and after chattiDg 



a while with my host the brigadier, I fell 
into a profound sleep. For a long time I had j 
not slept so well. 

Towards morning I awoke and rose at 
once, and the first hours appeared very long 
to me. I breakfasted, conversed and walked 
about in the room and upon the terrace, cast 
a glance at the books of my host ; and at 
length a visiter was announced. 

A genteel looking officer came to give me 
news of my father, and to inform me that 
there was a letter at Novarra from him, 
which would be brought to me in a short 
time. I was extremely obliged to him for 
his amiable courtesy. 

Several hours passed which seemed to me 
an age, when at last the letter appeared. 

Oh, what joy to see again those precious 
characters ! what joy to learn that my mother, 
my most excellent mother, was still living ! 
that my two brothers and my eldest sister 
were also alive ! The youngest, alas ! who 
was made a nun of the visitation, and of 
whom I had secretly received intelligence in 
prison, had been dead nine months. ^ 

It is sweet to me to believe that I am in- 
debted for my freedom to all those who love 
me, and ceased not to intercede with God in 
my behalf, particularly a sister, who died 
showing evidences of the most elevated piety. 
May God reward her for all the anguish 
which her heart suffered on account of my 
misfortunes ! 

Days passed by, and the permission to 
leave Novarra came not. On the morning of 
the 16th of September, the permission was 
at length given to me, and I was freed from 
all custody of the carbiniers. Oh ! how many 
years it had been, since 1 had been able to 
go where I pleased without the attendance 
of guards ! 

I received some money, had a polite visit 
from a person who was acquainted with my 
father, and set off about three in the afternoon. 
My travelling companions were a lady, a 
merchant, a sculptor, and two young painters, 
one of whom was deaf and dumb. These 
painters came from Rome, and I had the 
pleasure of learning that they knew the 
family of Maroncelii. It is delightful to 



96 



MY PRISONS. 



speak of those we love, with persons to 
whom they are not indifferent. 

We passed the night at Vercelli. The 
happy day of the 17th of September dawned. 
We continued our journey. Oh, how slow 
coaches are ! We did not reach Turin until 
evening. 

Who ever, ever can describe the consolations 
of my heart and the hearts so dear to me, 
when I again saw and embraced my father 
and mother and brothers? My dear sister 
Josephine was not there, her duties detaining 
her at Chieri ; but on learning my return, she 



hastened to come and spend some days at 
home. Restored to those five dearest objects 
of my affection, I was, I am, the most envi- 
able of mortals. 

Blessed be Providence for the misfortunes 
of the past and the felicity of the present, as 
well as for all the good and evil yet in reserve 
for me ! 

Men and things, whether they wish it or ! 
not, are the admirable instruments which it j 
knows how to employ in the accomplishment 
of worthy ends. 



THE END. 



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